


One Blessing

by Jana_C



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, Fix-It, Found Family, Friendship, Hand wavy magic, Hand wavy science, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Slow Burn, is it slow burn if there are only five chapters??, playing fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jana_C/pseuds/Jana_C
Summary: Lambert finds a bard - a dying bard - and brings him to Kaer Morhen. After all, it wouldn't do to leave Geralt's bard to die in a bandit camp.If only they knew what was wrong with him, and how to heal it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 327
Kudos: 3156
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was going through my profile these days, and I noticed I hadn't posted anything for almost two years - and that was a very scary thought. So, here I am - I watched the show, I played the game, I read _The Last Wish_ , then I made my friends watch the show with me again, and I needed some VENGEANCE , so here we are. A new fandom.  
> The story is not my best work, because I'm a little rusty, but I hope you guys like it. Most of it is set in the world of the show, but some elements from the game have bled through - I hope it's not much of a mess.  
> The story is also complete, so I'll post one chapter a day until it's done, and try to fix any mistakes I find before doing it - if you guys find anything, please let me know, and I'll fix it.  
> Hope you enjoy it!

**One Blessing**

Lambert doesn’t like to get himself involved in the affairs of humans.

In most of his unnaturally long life, he has only found hatred, fear and regret going down that road so, when he hears the sounds of a bandit camp near Yspaden, he mentally adjusted his plans of traveling up the Gwenllech to Kaer Morhen, and maybe take a longer route to avoid a confrontation.

His job is to kill monsters, monsters who die with silver in their guts, and not the petty squabbles of humans who’d rather attack their own than make their way into a civilized life.

Savages, the lot of them.

He’s mostly decided to just avoid the whole thing, when he smells the blood and something… else. Something familar that he can’t quite place for a few seconds, until he unconsciously drags his horse closer to camp and identifies what it is that’s bothering him.

Something in that camp smells like Geralt.

Geralt who should be already at Kaer Morhen by now — and, anyway, the scent is much too faint to be his brother, which means, Lambert concludes with a sigh, that the human in that camp is someone who either stole something from Geralt, or is someone who’s been with Geralt recently.

Against his better judgement, Lambert decides to investigate the source of the scent — his brother is strange among Witchers, hanging around nobility, royalty even, having that human bard of his follow him around, and tangling with witches. Not that Lambert doesn’t appreciate company at times, he does. But he tends to gather other Witchers with him, hunt with them, spend time enjoying the company of someone other than his horse, and not with crazy sorceresses, and _bards_ , of all people.

“All I’m saying is Kerack is still a long ways away, and we ain’t have the muscle to carry that dead weight all the way if he’s to be kept alive,” one of the bandits is saying when Lambert comes closer, steps silent but swords still on his back. He hasn’t decided yet if this is a situation he needs to get into.

“Well his family ain’t gonna up and pay us if the bard is dead now! What the fuck is wrong with him, anyway?”

There’s some grumbling about fickle bards and rain, something about the man shivering from cold, some laughs over the daintiness of nobles, and Lambert thinks, well, fuck it. He has a feeling he’s going to regret this _deeply_ , but, if one of Geralt’s pets is in trouble and he doesn’t help them, he’ll feel guilty, even though he’d never admit it — which means that he makes quick work of the six bandits who are, indeed, holding another human in a cage.

A gods damn _cage_.

The human is not small by any means, but he is leaner and slightly shorter than Lambert. He’s dressed in a red, impractical jacket, simple breeches and a shirt much too thin for the cold that has been descending on them for weeks now — it would be worrying already even if the man, once Lambert opens the cage and tries to talk to him, didn’t just blink at him, face flushed in an abnormal way, and promptly collapsed down again.

The fucking bard is _dying_ , and Lambert will never live it down if he doesn’t help him now, so he does the one thing he thinks to do — he packs the bard in front of him on his horse, sets everything useful he can find into his packs, including an elven lute, packs the slighter man against him and under his cloak, and sets at neck-breaking speed towards Kaer Morhen.

Maybe there’s a reason for Geralt to never have brought the bard with him when he comes for winter, maybe it’s for the bard’s health, maybe it’s to get away from all the singing — Geralt does complain about that more than anything else when they are home — but he’ll surely forgive Lambert from bringing his friend in when the alternative is death in the mountains.

They _are_ good friends, after all. One doesn’t keep someone’s company for two decades if they aren’t friends.

* * *

Eskel is the one to open the gates, and he is surprised to see Lambert carrying someone _inside_ his own cloak — either that, or Lambert had done the impossible and beaten Witcher’s mutations into submission and actually gotten fat.

That wouldn’t explain the two sets of heartbeats, though — both slow, almost at the same pace, which is worrying on its own: it’s clearly no Witcher that Lambert is carrying into their fortress, and that means that the person in his arms is dying.

The other man dismounts carefully, and Eskel hurries to his side to help with his burden — it doesn’t take much for him to identify Geralt’s bard, he had even seen him perform a few times, hidden better than Geralt, with his white hair, could ever hope for, among humans.

He looks at Lambert, who puts his shoulder under the bard’s and together they start dragging the unconscious man into the keep.

“What happened?”

“No idea. Bunch of bandits near Yspaden. I was going to ignore it, but the fuckers were talking about ransom for this one, and I thought Geralt would be even more unbearable than usual if I let his bard there to die, so.”

He stops talking as they get to the doors, and they open suddenly, Vesemir looking worried already — the old witcher probably heard their conversation from inside the keep.

Without another word, they walk the bard into their healing room, as unfit for a human as it is — Eskel knows that Geralt and his other guests are higher up in the tower, and probably haven’t heard the commotion all the way down, so, when they settle the bard down on a cot, he leaves Vesemir to tend to his wounds, and goes in search of his brother to warn him that one more of his humans are here.

Maybe this will lift the man’s spirit some.

* * *

Ciri is reading old tomes on beasts under Geralt’s watchful eyes when one of the other witchers, Eskel, Yennefer remembers, comes into their quarters, looking worried.

He looks conflicted about disturbing his brother, but Geralt looks at him and inhales deeply, his golden eyes widening in confusion as he gets up with a kind, but firm, word for Ciri to keep studying.

Yennefer doesn’t like to be kept out of the loop, so she follows them out of the small library, even as Eskel looks at her nervously before speaking — three weeks she’s been here, and yet they aren’t comfortable around her, and don’t trust her even a little.

It’s fine.

She’s here for Ciri, not them anyway.

“What happened?” Geralt asks curtly, and Eskel starts walking down the stairs, leading them to where Yennefer knows is their makeshift infirmary.

“Lambert found him near Yspaden — he said something about bandits and kidnapping.”

“Not Nilfgaard?” Geralt prompts, and Eskel shrugs.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Lambert.”

She is starting to wonder of they’re talking about another witcher — Lambert, she knows, is the one brother who hasn’t come home for winter yet, and maybe he found someone else on his path here. Someone in need of looking after, if the commotion in the room they enter is anything to go by.

The old witcher, Vesemir, is working quickly, and she admires his efficiency, not for the first time. Her eyes, however, stray to the man hanging back, arms crossed, and a face with two think, long scars down the side — less gruesome than Eskel’s, but still a little intimidating. And then, finally, she looks down to the cot, and her eyes widen.

“Jaskier.”

She comes closer to the sickbed, and takes one of his hands into hers, searching for a pulse — she doesn’t have Witcher’s senses, she can’t hear his heartbeat, and he looks very much _dead_.

She didn’t think she’d care, but there you go. This man has been in her life for almost as long as Geralt, and seeing him unconscious, barely breathing, does something to her — she is immortal, the people she cares about, djinn-made or not, are immortal, and, although death isn’t a foreign concept to her, it is new that she _cares_ if this annoying man should die.

“How did you find him?” she asks when it’s clear that Geralt isn’t going to do anything more than stare at the bard.

“Bandit camp,” comes the cautious reply, and she looks at the one who answered to see his calculating gaze. He probably already knows who she is, and he probably doesn’t trust her either, but that is fine.

It really is.

“I thought you said he left for Oxenfurt, for the winter,” she turns to Geralt, whose eyes are still fixed on Jaskier, something ugly coiling in his gaze that she doesn’t like.

It’s the same trapped look he gave her when Borch made her aware of his wish.

It’s the look he gets when he _knows_ he did irreparable damage and is trying to fight through it.

“He did,” he finally answers, his voice even lower than normal.

“Didn’t you check to see if he got on a ship in Poviss?” she insists, because, now that she parses through what little they talked since they met again after Sodden, she thinks that he never actually _said_ that. She simply assumed, because she knew that Geralt would always go a little out of his way to check that Jaskier was out of danger before leaving him.

Geralt looks at her briefly, that ugly thing rearing its head again.

“He’s not my responsibility,” he says, voice cutting and low, and then turns on his heels, and leaves, not once looking behind.

If she didn’t know him better, she’d say he’s angry — but she knows enough to realize that he’s afraid.

Whatever it is will have to wait, she concludes, when Vesemir takes a step back, looking at the man before him in confusion. She has a bard to help.

* * *

Lambert stays behind and even he isn’t really sure why. Maybe to check that the bard won’t die, maybe so Vesemir can explain to him what the fuck is a witch doing in their home, maybe to keep his distance from Geralt, because that was _not_ the reaction he was expecting when he brought the man’s bard here.

Not knowing the reason, he just stays — he and Vesemir don’t have the best of relationships, but he does respect the man who raised and trained him enough to understand that when the old witcher looks confused, something is very wrong.

“What is it?” the witch asks before he can, and Vesemir looks at him once before answering her — her voice is demanding and haughty, and he dislikes that on principle. Something about her whole demeanor puts him on edge.

“How good are you at healing?” Vesemir asks, and Lambert sees her small frown before she can mask it again in disdain, and then she speaks in Elder, and his body fucking _freezes_ because there hasn’t yet been one time when spells like that were done around him that he doesn’t think it’s creepy as a wraith.

As an army of wraiths.

“He is… fine.”

Her tone is bathed in confusion as well, and Lambert has had enough. He’s not a patient man by any means, and he saved the damn bard, so he guesses now he’s invested in this.

“What do you mean, fine? He hasn’t woken up the whole ride here. The bandits who had him were saying he was out of it already when I got there, and he was burning up the whole way up.”

“It looks like a cold — perhaps something a little more serious, because of the snow, and damp weather, and what I’m sure weren’t ideal conditions of food and water if he was trapped by bandits, but it’s not enough for him to be this out of it. It’s not serious enough to get him unconscious.” She stops talking and turns to look at him fully, piercing purple eyes as unsettling to him as he knows his own are for normal people, “How did you find him exactly? Were there any mages around?”

He thinks about refusing to answer — just let her dangle, because she doesn’t have any right to demand answers from him, no one does.

However, he can’t help but feel a little responsible for the bard now, and Vesemir hasn’t protested the interrogation, which means he may also want to know the answers himself.

“No mages, just six assholes talking about bringing him to Kerack to demand a ransom.”

The witch looks considering at that.

“They may have hired a mage to get him unconscious for the travel — Jaskier _is_ more trouble than he is worth, most of the time.”

Lambert shakes his head, ignoring the way her voice turned almost fond at the end of the sentence.

“They were complaining about how difficult it would be to move him like this. From what I gathered, they weren’t happy about it.”

She turns back to the unconscious man, murmuring again and looking as if she’s about to pass out when she stops.

“I did what I could to heal him from the worst of the sickness, and put him under a healing sleep — this way he won’t starve or die of dehydration should he not awake soon, but I’m not sure there’s anything else I can do. I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she ends in a frown that tells Lambert she isn’t accustomed to not knowing things.

The witch goes, leaving Lambert and Vesemir staring at the sleeping bard in confusion.

“So,” Lambert breaks the silence, “why the fuck is there a witch here?”

Vesemir’s grunt about a wolf is answer enough.

* * *

When she gets back to the library, Ciri has left for sword training with Eskel, and Geralt is alone, staring out the window, his face a mask of anger.

If she were any better at this, at feeling, at nurturing, at _caring_ , she would maybe be gentle and find a way to get Geralt talking about why he looks like this, but she can’t really create a talent for something she never had, so she goes to him with blunt questions and pointed words, which is a language both of them speak fluently.

“He won’t wake up,” she states, and sees the sheer _terror_ in Geralt’s eyes, but even then he doesn’t actually _ask_ her anything, “I healed whatever I could, and he should be fine, but he’s not waking up, and your mentor doesn’t seem to know what to make of it either.”

“He’s not—” he starts and cuts himself off with the same breath, making Yennefer wish she was a little bit more cruel and have the strength to make him struggle and say the words aloud — she doesn’t understand their dynamic, doesn’t know why Jaskier still follows Geralt after all this time, why Geralt allows it when it looks as if he barely tolerates the man, but she does know that the care the witcher has for his friend, as much as he doesn’t allow the word to even pass through his lips, is deep and _real_.

Unlike whatever it is that they feel for each other.

“Not dead. Not _dying_ , either, at least not yet.”

“Hm.”

She rolls her eyes at his answer and thinks about leaving him be. Then she thinks he doesn’t quite deserve the reprieve yet.

“Do you know when he was taken?” silence is her only answer, and Yennefer starts to actually worry about this — they don’t know what Jaskier is going through, they don’t know if Nilfgaard got a hold of him or not. He may be a danger, or be _in_ danger, and the man who could have a clue isn’t talking, “Geralt, why wasn’t he with you?”

With an annoyed look, he leaves the room, and Yennefer wishes she could just snap his neck and be done with it, but, alas, Ciri may need him still.

She does go back to the infirmary, however. Not knowing things has never sat well with her at all.

* * *

It’s been three days, and her healing sleep isn’t going to help for much longer. Her own power is diminished by what she did at Sodden, and keeping him under for much longer will drain her even more — apart from that, it doesn’t help to keep the bard under a healing spell if there’s nothing _to_ heal. That kind of magic is designed to set the body back together, to take powerful magics off, and it isn’t doing either.

Both her and Vesemir are at their wits end. She thinks that maybe the witchers are starting to actually worry too — the one who rescued Jaskier, Lambert, comes by to watch the man sleep every time there’s a break in their routines. The other one, Eskel, comes by early in the morning, and late at night, before turning in. Even Ciri is around sometimes, worry etched on her face for someone she doesn’t even care about — a kindness about her, a caring so deep that Yennefer envies, for she never had that herself, even before Aretuza.

The one who doesn’t come is Geralt, and Yennefer is starting to get sick of it. Whatever happened after she left them in that mountain, and she is _certain_ that something happened, is eating at Geralt more and more, and the stubborn idiot does nothing about it apart from glare and grunt.

“Maybe he just needs someone to talk to him,” Ciri says that evening, as she and Vesemir, once more, try to understand what could be wrong with the bard.

Yennefer knows the child is joking, but it also burns at her heart that Ciri would even suggest something so precious — so much has been taken away from this girl, so much burned from her life, and yet here she is, always on her feet, without allowing the world to turn her mean spirited or cruel.

She really doesn’t know what is worse: to have had nothing, and then find something to which you cling with all your forces only to discover it was all a lie, or to grow up with everything, and then lose it all like Ciri did, in one fell swoop. What she does know is that Ciri is much better than her, much better than Geralt, because none of it has sullied her soul.

“He played at court sometimes,” the girl continues quietly, a hand picking up one of Jaskier’s in a tender grip as she watches his face, and then turns to Yennefer with a small smile, “Grandmother didn’t like him very much, and he always looked afraid when she was around, but he was funny. He wrote me a song for my birthday once,” she finishes quietly, and Yennefer knows the song, _The Lion Cub of Cintra_.

Something angry wakes up in her then, something she was not expecting.

How dare he? How dare this bard infiltrate even Cirilla’s life, make her _care_ for him, and then just give up like this, just… _sleep_ , as if dead?

“Maybe it’s like a fairy tale curse,” Ciri goes on, a small smile on her pale face, “and he’ll wake up with a true love’s kiss.”

Yennefer notices the way Vesemir stops, just for a second, in his notes, and the way his gaze turns calculating a few seconds later.

Their eyes meet, and Yennefer can see he’s just had an idea. Maybe they’ll manage to save the bard after all.

Later that night, after Ciri has gone to bed, Vesemir asks Geralt to remain behind after they are done cleaning up after their dinner.

“How sure are you your bard is human?” Vesemir asks without preamble, and Geralt grunts — what a shock — in response.

“What else would he be?” the man ends up asking once it’s clear his mentor didn’t find his answer satisfactory at all, “Silver doesn’t hurt him, neither does iron. He’s no creature.”

“What about dimeritium?” she asks suddenly.

“He’s not a witch.”

“That’s not what she asked,” Vesemir answers, and Yennefer realizes the old witcher has at least _some_ idea of what is happening to Jaskier.

“Never tried it,” Geralt answers, already getting up to leave the room. Vesemir shakes his head, but, really, he knows better than to expect more from that idiot.

“That boy is not human,” he finally tells her when they’re alone. She doesn’t know if Vesemir actually trusts her, or if she’s just a sounding board to him now, “Not fully. No human falls into that state without the help of a curse, or a spell —”

“But a creature might,” she completes, thinking back on all the times she interacted with Jaskier over the years. Truth be told, she doesn’t recall much — her attention was usually on Geralt, not on the annoying human accompanying him. “Not an elf,” she starts, knowing full well that were Jaskier even half-elf, he would have their ears; if less, he wouldn’t be… beautiful, as he is.

It irks her that he is that — his clear skin, and symmetrical features, and easy grace. _Real_ traits, that he was probably born to, and not carved out of his own choices being taken away.

Vesemir nods, agreeing.

“No. But some creatures — _magical_ creatures — may fall into this kind of trance, or sleep. It’s where the fairy tales comes from. The dryad who turns into a tree until the world needs her again. The bruxa who dies so her lover can be free of a curse. The fae who leaves their own behind. The godling who disappears when they aren’t wanted. The djinn who sleeps until called upon…” he trails off, and Yennefer tries not to take offense at the mention of the djinn.

“Jaskier couldn’t be any of those — he doesn’t even look anything other than human.”

“Sometimes, we grow so accustomed to some things, that it becomes very difficult to see what’s right in front of us,” Yennefer keeps quiet, eyes on the old witcher as he explains his point, “How long ago did you meet the bard?”

“Seven years,” she answers with no hesitation, the date marked into her very soul by now.

“And he’d been traveling with Geralt for… fifteen years already,” he says slowly, and Yennefer starts to see the picture he’s painting, “the bard started following him around when he was just out of school — twenty, twenty-two at the most. Does that man in there looks like a human would, being forty or more years of age, and living on the Path with a witcher for most of his life?”

And Yennefer doesn’t even have to answer to see that no, he does not.

How could they not have _noticed_ that before? How did it escape their notice that Geralt’s bard still looked fresh out of school, always a spring in his step, always a fresh face and youthful voice?

“What _is_ he?” she asks quietly, unsettled by this realization.

Vesemir shrugs with a deep, tired sigh.

“I do not know. But I’d bet my sword that whatever he is has something to do with his state. And whatever happened between him and Geralt before he went after his Child Surprised is connected to this as well.”

* * *

“He won’t last long if he doesn’t wake.”

She goes straight in for the kill as always, doesn’t she? Geralt doesn’t answer, keeping his focus on the swords he’s sharpening, even though they don’t really need it.

“Vesemir is convinced he’s not human,” she goes on, taking a seat by the fire, right in his line of vision if he would just look up, but he doesn’t want to, “Quite frankly, I’m inclined to agree. We spent our whole lives not paying attention to humans, and then we don’t notice when someone who’s Jaskier’s age shouldn’t look like he does,” Yennefer is quiet a moment longer, and then, when she speaks, her voice is quieter, less pointed, and it’s almost enough to take Geralt to his breaking point. “Geralt, he is going to die if you don’t do something.”

“And _what_ do you want me to do?” he spits out, because this feeling he’s carrying, this anger, this _rage_ is burning bright enough to drown his guilt.

Because if he hadn’t said those things, if he had bothered to _look_ for Jaskier just a little, if he hadn’t felt so entitled to his anger and resentment as to not see that Jaskier wasn’t at fault _at all_ , then the man wouldn’t have been kidnapped, and they wouldn’t be in this position.

“But we are,” Yennefer answers, and he snarls at her.

“Stay out of my head.”

“Tell me what happened.”

They stare at each other, and he wants to be angry, and shout, and maybe break a few things, because the thing is that anger is _easy_. Rage is _easy_. You keep people away this way, and then you don’t get hurt when they don’t want you, or when they leave you.

 _And then you push away the people who would stay of their own free will_ , whispers a traitorous voice in his head.

“I snapped at him,” he yields eventually, “I said things I shouldn’t have, and then he… left.”

“And you didn’t go after him,” she completes, and he can only nod.

He’s not good with words. Or maybe that’s wrong — he doesn’t _like_ using words. They carry too much weight, they can be used against you in all ways, so he prefers to keep things to himself. For so long he’s done this, that maybe it became a part of him, which is why he doesn’t say anything else even though he feels like he should.

He should say many, many things, to Yennefer and to Jaskier and to Ciri, but it’s hard.

It’s so, so hard.

“When you brought him to me, in Rinde,” she speaks again, eyes on the fire now, and a thoughtful expression on her face, “You said something similar.”

“What?”

She turns to stare at him again, a bemused expression on her face.

“You told me you said things to him that you’d rather not be the last thing he heard from you. I was healing him — as much as I wanted to trap that djinn, I wasn’t going to let him die if I could help it, but after you said that…” she is silent for a moment, frowning, and when she speaks again, her voice is considering, “After _he heard_ you saying that, it became easier. I told you he’d have to sleep for a day at least, but he woke up much sooner. Because he heard you.”

“Are you trying to say he’s going to get better if I apologize?” he asks, a bitter smirk on his face. It seems to have the desired effect for once, as Yennefer gathers her skirts about her with an angry sigh and heads to the door.

“I’m saying maybe you’ll feel less guilty if you at least apologize before he dies,” she states before leaving him alone.

Well, that doesn’t hurt at all, does it?

* * *

He waits until everyone has gone to bed — Lambert, he notices, is the last one to leave, hanging around the infirmary corridor for a long time before setting out to his own room, and only then does Geralt creep in quietly, swallowing hard as he sees Jaskier lying on the cot.

The fire is lit to a corner of the room, even though it’s not as cold as it’ll be down the road. He’s still in the same shirt and breeches he had been on the dragon hunt, his ridiculous red jacket hanging on a chair, his lute set carefully upon in.

Jaskier doesn’t look _dead_ — he doesn’t even look as if he’s dying, but he knows what Yennefer meant earlier. He’s not healing because there is nothing to heal, but he is also not getting any food or water and, eventually, even magic won’t be enough to keep his body functioning. He will die, and Geralt won’t ever be able to properly apologize, to tell him he _is_ his friend, and one of the few people he cares for because he chose to, and not because Destiny got in the way.

The witcher stares hard at the bard, trying to make sense of Vesemir’s comments in the past three days, but he can’t see it — Jaskier doesn’t look anything other than plain human. Maybe he hasn’t quite aged as much as he should have, but some people are like that. His medallion has never acted out when Jaskier is near, he’s never been useful in a hunt, and, most of all, not once, in the twenty-two years they have known each other, has Jaskier hurt him — not with words (and Geralt knows Jaskier _could_ , he may not be a fighter, but his way with words tend to cut deep and leave horrible scars behind), or magic, or anything. If only he could say the same about himself, but he knows very well he can’t. He’s hurt Jaskier in all the ways someone could — he put him down and disdained his talents, made little of his songs and profession, and belittled his usefulness. He threw this man’s friendship and care in his face and blamed him for things that were in no way his fault at all and now… Now Jaskier lies in the infirmary of the home Geralt never showed him, heartbeat slow and faint, dying of something not even a sorceress and a witcher can figure out, and Geralt is out of time to make this right.

There is a part of him, not as small as he would like to believe, that thinks back to his words on that cliff, on how he asked for a blessing to take Jaskier out of his hands, and he can’t help but wonder if maybe he did curse his friend to this. If he is indeed so wretched as to be capable of invoking magic to hurt him like this, and that thought alone, finally taking form after he fought against it for three days, is enough to make his chest ache — once, long ago, he had thought himself righteous for choosing no evil when it was possible, but now he thinks that maybe, the humans are right, and _he_ is the evil, and has been it all along. Because no matter how he plays this in his head — be it because he cursed his best friend, or because he sent him out on his own into a place where he got kidnapped and gods only know what else, he could have stopped this from happening, if only he wasn’t so used to pushing Jaskier away and always have him come back.

Truth is he didn’t believe Jaskier would actually _leave_ until he packed his things on Roach and noticed none of Jaskier’s things were there. Even at that he had been angry, raw and raging as he was after the whole debacle with Yennefer, because Jaskier had _left him_ , and it made him so, so angry. Although now, watching his dying friend on the weak light of the fire, his face already thin, hands cold as ice when he slowly takes one between his own, he has no choice but to see that Jaskier didn’t leave him, _he_ made Jaskier leave. _He_ pushed him away.

This, just as with all the things he yelled at Jaskier weeks before, is his fault, and his alone.

And now he’s going to lose his best friend, his _chosen_ friend, because he couldn’t be man enough to apologize and search for the bard. Because, like a child, his own feelings were hurt, and that’s all that mattered to him, Jaskier’s be damned.

“I should have been a better friend,” he ends up saying, his voice quieter than usual — it doesn’t feel right to speak above a whisper in this room, “I shouldn’t have blamed you,” he goes on, not quite knowing how to phrase this myriad of things he is feeling right now, “I should have gone after you,” his fingers are caressing the back of the bard’s hand almost without his permission as his gaze stays on the floor, “I’m not going to apologize now — if you die, you don’t get an apology. So you better wake up, because I owe you one.”

Geralt knows he’s being stupid as he says this, but there’s a part of him that hopes Jaskier’s eyes will be open and staring into his when he looks up; that teasing smile on his face, his voice saying _Geraaaalt_ with that lilt that used to make him want to growl in annoyance but which became so familiar as time went by.

Finally gathering all his courage, he looks up — Jaskier’s eyes are still closed, and he hasn’t moved. His hands are just as cold as before, and his heartbeat, although steady, is still just as weak.

The witcher sets the bard’s hand on the cot again and gets up to leave — even if Jaskier was to wake because of someone’s words, it certainly wouldn’t be Geralt’s.

He is no Prince Charming, and, as he takes one last look before closing the door behind him, he isn’t sure there’ll be a happy ending for him at any rate.

* * *

As the fire dies slowly in the infirmary, a heartbeat starts going a little faster — tiny bit by tiny bit. A heart that was on its way to stopping altogether picks its pace, making life flow again when before there was just emptiness.

When Lambert gets in to put another log in the fire, he stops and _listens_ , marveling at the steady drum of a normal heart, a _human_ heart getting stronger by the second. And before he can even think to call Vesemir or the witch, big, bright blue eyes are staring at him from the cot.

“What the fuck?” says the bard, and Lambert laughs.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _adore_ Lambert. From the second he showed up in the game, all gruff, and tough, and all about killing the guy who killed his "friend", I was gone, and he was my favorite new character. For a while there, I even considered just having Geralt die in a fjord and making Lambert happy by gifting him a Jaskier, but, oh well, maybe some other time.
> 
> This is also the chapter which makes justice to the "hand-wavy science/magic" tag - by the game I can conclude that Vesemir is basically a scientist, and a very smart man on top of that, the whole thing with Uma certainly sounds like it, so, here - have some smart!Vesemir.
> 
> The creature showed in the chapter is not from witcher mythology - I couldn't find anything I liked, so I made my choice among some other stuff.
> 
> This is a long ass chapter, so there's bound to be mistakes I missed - if you can find anything, don't hesitate to tell me, and I'll fix it.
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt has always seemed strange to Lambert, even among witchers. When he came into Kaer Morhen, given up by his good-for-nothing father, Geralt was heralded as unique and powerful, and Lambert understood that — he truly was strong, and he did know how to do his job very well, but Geralt always seemed to set himself _apart_. Not just from humans, which all of them did, but from anyone at all.

Then, decades later, Geralt had killed one bandit too many in a place a little too public, and the witchers’ image, which had never been great to begin with, got even worse — _The Butcher of Blaviken_ he was now, and life got a little bit harder for them all. Lambert didn’t really mind all that much, life on the Path wasn’t easy, and if there was one thing Vesemir had actually taught him was to always, _always_ , expect the worst from humans, so he did.

Geralt, on the other hand, seemed to suffer with that, with the rejection and the fear that came with it, which was something Lambert did _not_ get.

Years down the road, Geralt found himself a bard, who, even though the White Wolf would never admit, actually salvaged much of the man’s reputation — again, Geralt set himself apart seeking friendship among humans instead of other witchers, but it was Geralt’s life and he had nothing to do with it. As much as he dislikes people telling him what to do, he assumes everyone else hates it as much as he does, and so he tries not to put his nose into other people’s business — until it becomes _his_ business, like with the situation they find themselves in now.

The witch comes and goes from the infirmary. Vesemir, when he’s not training Geralt’s Child Surprise (and don’t even get Lamber _started_ on Geralt having to raise anyone), is by the cot, taking notes and studying old tomes. Even Eskel comes by at least twice a day, because someone who’s hurt in their keep is a worry to them all, specially a human.

But Geralt hasn’t been by even once since Lambert brought the bard here.

This apparent neglect irks him more than he can fully comprehend. It’s not like he goes around saving humans every opportunity he gets — he’s no damn hero in a ballad, he’s a witcher. His business is hunting monsters for coin, and he’s good at it. However, Lambert knows full well he saved _this_ particular human because of Geralt — and now the other man can’t seem to be bothered to even check in on his friend.

It’s annoying.

It’s not like he wants to have Geralt owe him or anything, it’s just that… for all the three of them call themselves brothers, Eskel and Geralt were trained together. They’ve been children of Kaer Morhen for much, much longer than he has, and he does know they see him as the child of their brood. He’s man enough to admit, even if only to himself, that impressing Geralt, the oldest, the most famous of them, would mean something to him — maybe he saved the bard because it was the right thing to do, of course, but maybe it was also because he would be giving Geralt something precious to him, and maybe the older witcher would start seeing him more like an equal than an annoying little brother.

As things stand so far, however, that is not the case. Geralt has spent three days grunting at anyone who isn’t Ciri — even Vesemir looks fed up with his star pupil. The witch barely even looks at him, and when she does, Lambert can see annoyance written on her every feature. He hears Eskel telling Geralt to go check in on his friend, but even that the man rebuffs, leaving in a huff before their brother can even finish speaking.

Maybe the bard tried to kill him.

Lambert knows how ridiculous that sounds, but it seems to be the only explanation — perhaps the man poisoned the witcher, and Geralt didn’t even want him saved anyway.

“You’re on fire duty tonight,” Vesemir grumbles at him when he comes by before heading to bed, and Lambert curls his lip in distaste — he would do it, no problem, but as soon as Vesemir _tells_ him to do it, he wants no part of it.

“Maybe the great White Wolf ought to be on fire duty tonight,” he replies bitingly.

The older man doesn’t even answer to that, but he hears the light steps of the witch behind him by the door before she speaks.

“They appear to have had a fight of some sort,” she says, entering the infirmary as if it were a ballroom, but for the first time she just looks _tired_. Lambert doesn’t even know what to do with that.

He didn’t even know witches _could_ get tired or feel worry or care about anyone other than themselves, but she _does_ look like she cares for the child, and now for this bard.

“You got anything useful out of him?” Vesemir asks, and the laugh that answers it is mocking.

“Useful is going too far, but Geralt did say he _snapped_ at Jaskier, which I took to mean he must have eviscerated the poor creature. I truly don’t understand the nature of their relationship enough to venture a guess as to how _that_ could result into _this,_ ” she gestures at the unconscious man on the cot. The witch pauses, a deep exhale leaving her as she tries and fails to look as if she doesn’t care whether the man lives or not. “At any rate,” she goes on, “I did tell him Jaskier will be dead soon. Maybe that will get him moving.”

“You lied to him?” Lambert asks, getting himself into the conversation for the first time, because, well — it _has_ to be a lie, right? The bard is unconscious, but he’s not sick. Both the witch and Vesemir said so.

She turns those purple eyes at him, and seems to measure all that he is before deigning to answer, something bored creeping into her tone.

“Not quite. My magic isn’t going to help forever, it can’t act on something that isn’t there. Vesemir hasn’t found anything either, and even if Jaskier _does_ have a creature lineage into him, he’s human enough that the lack of water and food will surely kill him in a fairly short time. Humans are such fragile creatures…” she trails off, a hand almost unwillingly tucking a lock of hair behind the bard’s ears and away from his face.

“We are doing all we can,” Vesemir tells him, as if Lambert is the one who needs to hear it, “But sometimes, there’s nothing we _can_ do but accept it.”

He wants to tell the old man to shut up, and he also wants to tell the witch that she doesn’t need to explain anything to him, because he doesn’t _care_ about the bard.

Geralt should, and he clearly doesn’t, so why should Lambert?

“I’ll keep the fire on,” he tells them both, and leaves for a while.

When the infirmary is empty again, he ventures into it, checking the logs by the fireplace, checking that there’s something covering the bard, checking that there aren’t any drafts that could get him sick, or sicker, at any rate, and then he leaves once more, pretending he doesn’t see Geralt lurking just outside the room.

He doesn’t stay to listen to whatever Geralt may or may not say, and gets into a restless slumber until the early hours right before dawn until he goes back to his post, to check the fire — and as soon as he enters, he knows there’s something wrong.

Or not _wrong_ , but _different_.

The heartbeat, a weak, slow echo until a few hours earlier is now stronger, faster. He approaches carefully, thinking of all the men and women he’s seen die getting that last rush of life into their bodies, adrenaline and fear pumping strong before being gone, and he thinks, _fuck, I’m not the one who should see him die_ , but the bard doesn’t seem to be dying at all — his face is slightly more flushed. His skin a little warmer when Lambert sets a hand on his forehead, and when blue eyes open suddenly to his own yellow ones, he’s so startled as to not even react apart from taking a swift step away.

“What the fuck?!” says the man, and then he promptly falls off the cot in a whirlwind of motion, and Lambert laughs, “Oh of course, laugh all you want, sir, at the poor bard who was being rudely stared at in the middle of sleep,” continues the complaints even as Lambert comes closer and offers the man a hand, and then decides to just pull him up and onto the bed when the bard fails to see the offer, “Where _was_ I asleep at any rate? And why aren’t my legs working?”

It seems as if now that the man is awake, he can’t stop moving. He fiddles with the covers he’s twisted in, and wiggles his toes, finally turning to Lambert with mistrust — but not as much as he should have, given that there’s a stranger in a strange place with him.

“Where the hell am I?”

“Kaer Morhen,” Lambert starts, ready to offer an explanation, but the other man doesn’t give him a chance.

“The witchers’ fortress? Well, it does make sense, what with your eyes, and the lifting me up onto this cot as if I were a rag doll, but why the hell am I here? Oh no—” he puts a hand through his hair, eyes wide and shining in a way that is just this side of too bright to be fully human, “The bandits! What happened?”

“I found you,” Lambert answers him before he can start having a conversation with himself again, “I found the bandits that took you when I was on my way here, so I rescued you. You’ve been sleeping for three days — well, four now, I guess.”

“ _You_ found me?” the emphasis is not lost on Lambert and suddenly he doesn’t want to be in this room having this conversation anymore. Something _alive_ in this man seems to dim a little, and it’s very uncomfortable to watch, “By chance?”

The witcher can only nod, careful at the other man’s reaction, and he’s thrown for a loop when the bard laughs quietly but brightly again.

“Well, then, I must be the luckiest man alive, for a witcher to find me with those hoodlums. I have no idea how long I was with them, but let me tell you, it wasn’t a pleasant experience at all,” he tilts his head slightly, and bows — or tries to, given the twisted covers and his slumping position on the cot, “Jaskier, master bard, at your service, master witcher.” He finishes the introduction with a nod, and Lambert scoffs at him.

“Lambert.”

“As eloquent as the other witcher I know,” Jaskier tells him with a small wink, subduing again at the roundabout mention of Geralt.

Jaskier’s stomach chooses that moment to awake as well, and he stares at it in surprise, before turning a bemused look at Lambert.

“It seems that sleeping does take its toll.”

Lambert laughs quietly, and gathers a thick, short blanket around the bard, finding him some boots, and helping him — or truly, mostly carrying him — towards the kitchens.

He knows he should be worried — Vesemir said the man might not be fully human. He was unconscious for gods know how long. Geralt is still a mystery, but he is quite sure he’d like to know that the bard is awake. The witch should be notified as well, to check if there’s something wrong with him. But right now, the man needs food, and Lambert is already awake, and he honestly doesn’t care one wit what the others will say, because they are not the boss of him.

So he helps the bard take a seat, finds him some bread left over from last night’s meal and an infusion warm enough to stave off the cold air as he lights the kitchen fire to start breakfast — no reason not to help out since he is already awake, even though the sun is still as asleep as the rest of the keep.

“Where did you find me?” the bard asks him once he’s settled into a chair, dumping small pieces of bread into the mug of tea before putting them in his mouth, careful not to eat anything too big, or maybe unable to.

“Outside Yspaden. I was going to go around their camp, but—” he stops, not willing to say that he stopped because he scented something that reminded him of his brother. Mentioning Geralt seemed to bring the bard down, so he didn’t, “I noticed the cage, and they were talking about ransom. So I got you out, and brought you here.”

Jaskier is quite for a few seconds, chewing on his bread.

“Why?”

“Any other city was too far,” Lambert shrugs, getting up from the front of the fireplace and busying himself with the food he’d need to feed them all, “If I had gone anywhere else, I wouldn’t have made it here in time for the first snow, and then I’d have to spend winter in the continent, which I really didn’t want to do.”

He makes it sound casual, but Jaskier seems to understand there’s more to it — this is no passing town, it’s the witchers’ _home_.

“Thank you.”

There’s so much appreciativeness in the words that it takes a little bit of Lambert’s breath away.

“It’s nothing,” he brushes off, and sees the smile playing on Jaskier’s lips when he says it — the knowing kind of smile from someone who knows that it is _not_ nothing.

The bard finishes the piece of bread and Lambert quietly hands him another before he can even think to ask. He sips the tea, and seems content enough to just glance around the kitchens with a curious look as Lambert putter around the pots and pans — it’s not even half an hour later, the sun just starting to rise, when steps make their way to them, and Lambert sighs, knowing that the peace and quiet are over.

As soon as Vesemir enters, Lambert knows he is aware that Jaskier is in there with him — it’s not like the old wolf has lost any of his senses just because he’s older. If anything, they’ve gotten better the longer he’s had them.

“You didn’t think to wake me and let me know the man is not dead after all?” the old witcher grunts, making a beeline for Jaskier, who very much looks like he wants to run the opposite direction, but can’t — for one, he’s still entangled in the blanket Lambert got him, and for two, he seems still unsure of his own legs.

“That’s Vesemir,” Lambert introduces in the most neutral tone he can manage, which isn’t much. He is aware of the look Jaskier gives him before turning to the older man.

“Uhm, nice to meet you?” the bard offers, and Vesemir grunts again, waving a hand.

“Finally decided to rejoin the world of the living, heh?”

“Lambert said he found me and brought me here, so I think it’s only polite that I thank you for your kind hospitality and for allowing me to stay in your fortress for the duration of my illness. I wouldn’t want to impose, of course — as soon as I remember how legs work, I’ll be out of your hair, good sir.”

Lambert takes a moment to appreciate Vesemir’s face at the onslaught of words assaulting him, and hides a smile, turning back to the stove. It would be worth to save the bard’s life once more just to see that astounded look on the old man again.

“If I may, however, what was it that I seemed to be suffering from?” the bard’s tone is hesitant as he asks, something cautious in his gaze now, but he seems sincere in his confusion.

“We were hoping you could answer that, seeing as we have no fucking clue.”

The old witcher and the bard stare at each other for a long moment, when it looks like Jaskier is waiting for the rest of the joke. When it doesn’t come, he sighs, closing his eyes.

“Well, fuck.”

* * *

Vesemir determines that the best course of action for the moment is to take the bard back to the infirmary to check on his health, and also remove him from the kitchens before the rest of the people staying in Kaer Morhen get there — the last part is mostly, Lambert thinks, for the bard’s benefit, it wouldn’t do for him to be overwhelmed by a witch, a child and two more witchers all at once.

Lambert isn’t quite sure why he stays by the bard’s bed after taking him there, but he does. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s to check that the man he rescued is alright — or maybe it’s just so he won’t have to deal with informing the others of his recovery.

“I was heading to Poviss, that’s the last thing I remember,” the bard tells Vesemir, once he’s declared out of risk by the witcher, who then proceeds to interrogate the man.

“And you didn’t meet anyone? Mages, creatures, hags, nothing?”

“No,” Jaskier replies, shaking his head.

“And you felt nothing strange, you didn’t drink or eat anything the bandits might have given you?”

“Well, you see, I don’t think there would have been time,” he explains, voice rushed, “They caught up to me just as I was leaving town — I had been feeling under the weather for a few days, I thought it was the rough sleeping and bad food, so I stayed in Creyden for a little while. I decided I had been there long enough, and when I left town, they found me. Or maybe they followed me — I did perform at the inn and the tavern a few times.”

“Were you waiting for Geralt?” the question comes from the witch, who may as well have just appeared by the door, and makes the bard almost fall off the bed in his scare. Lambert puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him upright, and he’s sure even Vesemir can hear the thundering heartbeat coming from him.

“Melitele’s sweet tears, am I dead? Have I gone to hell? It’s the only reason why I would see this witch after everything — either that, or I’m hallucinating, although I don’t think my own mind would be this cruel.”

Lambert laughs again, but Yennefer doesn’t seem concerned with the comments, she just glides right in, settling herself on a chair not too far from where Vesemir is, and stares at the bard, looking utterly unimpressed.

“I’ve been keeping you alive for days, little bard. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble. Now, could you answer my question? Were you waiting for Geralt?”

He stares at her for a long moment, more serious than he’s been since he woke up.

“No,” it’s such a blatant lie Lambert wouldn’t even need his witcher’s senses to make him aware of it, “What does that have to do with anything?” he asks, annoyance showing in his tone finally.

It took him long enough to get fed up with the questions from strangers, Lambert thinks.

“You’ve been unconscious for days — we don’t even know how long. When he found you,” the witch gestures towards him, and Lambert wants to snarl at her, “you were already asleep. When you got here, you had a fever, and what I thought were the beginnings of a severe cold, but that was not enough to keep you like that. You weren’t cursed, enchanted or bewitched. You weren’t under the effect of potions or poisons or anything from magical origin. We have a few working theories as to why you’d be unconscious for so long, and I, for one, would very much like to know what you are.”

“I’m a bard, Yennefer. Even if you never paid attention to anything other than Geralt, even when a fine specimen such as myself is around, surely _that_ didn’t escape your notice.”

“No human goes into a coma for no reason, bard,” Vesemir’s firm tone seems to have more effect than the witch’s prodding, which shouldn’t be surprising.

“Maybe I’m just special.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and silence stretches. The bard looks extremely uncomfortable, and he seems to be gathering strength to keep talking when, of course, Geralt deigns to show up at the door, and it all goes to hell from there.

* * *

Here is the thing that intrigues Jaskier, what has been intriguing him for over two decades: _why_ , in the name of all that is sacred, does he love Geralt?

There’s absolutely no reason for it, not a one, and yet, he does.

Well, of course, there’s the way he _looks_ , all tall and strong jawed and broad shouldered. That white hair, and the amber eyes, and the rumble of his voice — that could explain _attraction_ , but it does not explain love.

Where does it even come from, he wonders to himself sometimes late at night, in that strange position he’s put himself in of ever watching, and gathering the scraps of affection thrown his way when the man is around. Happy when he’s allowed to wash the other man’s hair after a particularly dirty fight. Glad not to be left behind in early mornings in the middle of nowhere. Why?

Why does he do this to himself, why does he even _try_ to keep up with that lump of coal that is the man’s heart?

But then he remembers — he remembers that Geralt is afraid of needing anyone. That from what he’s gathered so fair, Destiny has never once been kind to the witcher. That he helps those who need even when there’s no coin to be gained, gives away his pay to running elves, takes a stoning in quiet resignation even if he could tear half the offending town apart. He accepts pain as his due, and doesn’t know how to deal with gratitude, or friendship, or even _care_ — Jaskier can’t even begin to _imagine_ what Geralt would do when confronted with the thought of someone loving him. He wouldn’t be able to comprehend it, first of all. He wouldn’t believe it to be true, and he would keep searching for the price all along, so Jaskier never said anything.

They were friends, and it was enough, it would _always_ be enough for him, because even though he never showed it, even though he kept his heart hidden under walls Jaskier had no hope of ever climbing, he was sure that, deep down, Geralt cared for him too.

Until he wasn’t.

As Geralt turned to him, eyes filled with hatred and anger and rage in a way Jaskier had never seen, he was ready to start defending _Yennefer_ of all people, of trying to make his friend reconcile with the witch who managed to make him not happy, but at least less miserable. And then came the storm of words hurled like stones towards him.

_Him._

How could he _possibly_ be to blame for the idiot claiming the Law of Surprise as reward? In what manner could he _possibly_ be responsible for the man going _fishing for a djinn_ to take a nap? In what way was he to be responsible for Geralt of Rivia’s fucking terrible choices, including whatever the fuck made Yennefer vanish from the mountain in a huff?

It hurt, Jaskier won’t lie — it all hurt like a bitch, but he could get past it. He could get past it all, if not for the parting words coming from the man.

Geralt wanted a blessing, and Jaskier was very much going to give it to him — he didn’t have much; his voice, his lute, his music, those were all his. He thought he had Geralt’s friendship, but he was clearly mistaken. The one thing he never had much was a sense of self-preservation, but even he wouldn’t stick around a witcher who clearly wanted him gone more than anything.

So he left.

He picked a road, and he went down it until he hit a town, and then another, and then he slept in the forest, and picked another road, and found himself out of coin and food, so he sang for his supper and room, and it was fine, it really was.

Except that something… something was wrong. He put it down to tiredness, but no amount of sleep seemed to help. Then he thought it was just weariness, maybe the food wasn’t good, but nothing seemed to work. It was as if he was… fading. He stared at himself in the mirror, and found no fault, eyes still just as blue, and hair just as brown, and no crow’s feet to speak of, no matter what mean witches said, but he felt… _less_. Like a part of him was disappearing, and he didn’t want to think about it.

He specially didn’t want to think about his grandmother’s last words to him, the day he left for Oxenfurt, after a brief spell at home after boarding school.

 _Keep your heart safe, little bird. Keep it safe, lest someone break it_.

At the time, he thought it was just old age, nostalgia and a lifetime of heartbreak that made her say it — he had always adored his grandmother, but his grandfather had been cruel to her in more ways than Jaskier could comprehend back then.

Years down the line, he understood it all a bit better, and for the first time since he left Geralt on that mountain, Jaskier was _afraid_.

Decided to outrun his misfortune, he left town bright and early the next day, only to be caught by bandits not even five feet from the edge of town.

Of the kidnapping, he doesn’t remember much. How long he was awake, how long he slept, if he was fed, if he drank anything — none of it mattered then, and it matters even less now, with Geralt staring at him at the door, silent and closed off and cold.

Why, he thought again, why can’t he have a moment of peace?

“Jaskier—” the witcher finally says, and that single word takes the breath out of him. He closes his eyes, praying for strength this time, and pushes to his feet. The witcher who rescued him, Lambert, helps him up without a fuss, and Jaskier nods slightly in thanks before turning to Vesemir.

“I understand you have questions, my good sir, but I do believe I have already extended my stay past its limits. If you could spare me some clothes, and maybe some food for the road, I’d like to _take myself off your hands._ ”

He knows it’s a cheap shot, but he doesn’t care right now. Never let it be said he can’t be petty when the situation calls for it.

“Fuck, Jaskier!” Geralt snaps, but the bard refuses to look at him, “You can barely stand, now it’s not the time for you to grow a backbone.”

Blue eyes turn to Geralt then, and Jaskier knows Geralt isn’t used to this side of him, mean and cold, but he _can_ be that. He _will_ be that, because he refuses to lose his life over Geralt of fucking Rivia.

“I do not believe, sir Witcher, that I was talking to you,” he replies, in the sweetest, fakest tone he can muster, “I thank _you_ , sir, for helping me,” he tells Lambert, who looks very much like he wants to laugh, “And even you, Yennefer, for apparently keeping me alive. But I should really be on my way.”

He throws the blanket on the cot, regretting it immediately, but not backing down, as he tries to take a step forward. His plan doesn’t work properly, first because he can’t take more than two steps before his legs start to buckle, and second because Geralt doesn’t move from the doorway.

Jaskier feels strong hands gripping his arms, and taking him to a chair, the blanket again on his back, and he resigns himself to staying off his feet for a while longer.

“Or maybe a few more days of rest won’t hurt,” he mumbles.

“It will be more than a few days, boy,” Vesemir tells him, “The first snow came the night you and Lambert got here — it hasn’t let up yet. The path is already closed, we are all here until spring.”

His heart turns to ice at that, but he looks at Yennefer beseechingly.

“A portal, perhaps? For old times’ sake?”

She shakes her head, but she _does_ look like she’d give him another kind of answer if she could.

“I’m a bit… depleted at the moment. And magics such as portals are easy to track, we couldn’t risk it. Not with Ciri.”

At that, Jaskier’s eyes widen.

“Cirilla’s here?” there’s awe in his voice, and he knows it, but he doesn’t quite care.

“I went back for her, after…” Geralt starts, in his halting manner, “It’s why I didn’t—” he cuts himself off again, and Jaskier suddenly feels very uncomfortable having all these people here.

“Yes, well, good.”

“I say we head to breakfast,” Lambert suddenly says, breaking the awkwardness with such ease that Jaskier could kiss him, “Can’t be good for a man to go so long with no food in his belly, and I only fed him a few pieces of bread earlier.”

“You knew he was awake and didn’t tell me?” Geralt growls, teeth almost bared, but Lambert doesn’t seem to care — if anything, his smile is wider when faced with such clear anger.

“You his healer now? I thought that was Vesemir and the witch.”

At that, Lambert helps Jaskier to his feet, and together they walk past Geralt — he is aware of the slight tremble in his hands, if from effort of being awake or nerves from seeing Geralt, he very much doesn’t care to know — and thanks Lambert quietly for helping him again.

“It’s nothing,” the man replies, the same smirk on his face still, “Getting on the great wolf’s nerves is one of my favorite sports,” he replies, and it startles a small laugh from Jaskier.

“I didn’t know witchers had a sense of humor,” he comments.

“That’s because you only ever met the one who doesn’t,” another voice replies, and he’s greeted by a tall man with many, many scars on his kind face, “I’m Eskel. Glad to see you’re awake.”

“Jaskier,” he replies simply, feeling every bone in his body aching as if only now waking up — he had just felt numb before, only with the pain did he notice it, “And thank you.”

The others crowd around the table, and Jaskier tries not to notice how tense the room is, how everyone seems to be watching him as he eats.

“So then, bard, what manner of creature are you?”

* * *

Geralt is feeling very… out of sorts.

Jaskier is alive.

Jaskier is _angry_ , but he is alive, and he can’t help but think back on his words the night before.

He’ll have to apologize now. He doesn’t like it, but he’ll do it — what _does_ get to him is the fact that, as soon as Vesemir’s words are out of his mouth, Jaskier tenses. Not in denial, as Geralt was expecting until now, not to shout that he’s human, and not a creature, no — Jaskier is clearly tense and nervous and even a bit afraid, but he’s not surprised that he stands accused of being more than human by a witcher.

“Jaskier, no one will hurt you,” Yennefer’s voice is strangely reassuring, and the bard swallows hard, shaking his head slightly.

“That’s not quite the issue I have with this matter,” he says, voice bitter, and he looks down, as if afraid to look at any of them in the eyes.

“Then what is the issue?” Vesemir presses.

“I don’t know,” the bard says harshly, anger clear in his voice — not at them, Geralt doesn’t think, “I don’t know what I am,” he finishes quietly.

“How can you not know what you are?” Yennefer asks then, incredulity written in your voice.

“Do you think witcher’s mutations and your magical spells of eternal beauty came to be effortlessly? Naturally? Do you think someone, someday, just _knew_ how these things would work, how they’d come to pass?” the quiet in his voice is filled with bitterness, and Geralt feels his stomach churn — of course he, at some point, came to know that mutations and spells had to be tested and tried, but he had never encountered someone who could have undergone that process.

“Experiments,” she whispers then, and Jaskier barely inclines his head, bitterness written on his every feature.

“My grandfather was _not_ a good man,” he starts haltingly, as if not quite knowing how to tell a story, which is a feat in and of itself — Jaskier _always_ knows how to tell a story. “This was before the Great Cleansing, before magic and… and… _testing_ ,” he says the word like it’s a curse, “were looked down upon. He had no magical power of his own, but he was, for all his misgivings, a smart man, so he gathered mages and healers and scholars, and they… experimented.”

The bard stops talking, staring into the fire and looking more fragile than Geralt has ever seen him. Not even when he was almost dead did he look this broken.

“He didn’t just want to know things, he wanted to have them. To pass them on, such as it were. Many left him when it became clear what he wanted to do, but some stayed — the ones who didn’t care enough about human life to feel it was wrong to try and mess with unborn children or women who could not go through the birth of something that was more monster than man,” he pauses again, a world of pain in his blue eyes, “My grandmother was not my grandfather’s first spouse. From what I’ve gathered, he had quite the reputation back then, and she was the fifth woman he took to wife, and the only one who didn’t die during childbirth, even though they had no more children.”

“Are you saying your grandfather…” Yennefer trails off, a hint of horror in her voice, and Jaskier turns a sardonic smile in her direction.

“Am I saying my grandfather allowed insane mages and cruel healers to experiment on his wife’s womb so that his child would be more than human? Yes, I am.” He allows that to sink in before continuing, “It didn’t work, though. My father is as human as they come, and he is not really a terrible person even if he’s always kept me at arm’s length.”

“Did they know about you?” Vesemir inquiries, and Jaskier tilts his head, considering.

“They _suspected_. My grandmother burned every scrap of material that remained after my grandfather died, and she had to hide a great deal of it herself, given she was half-elf, and by the time my grandfather was gone, the Great Cleansing was already going on. I only found any of this out because, well, I went looking for answers some years ago.”

Jaskier pauses, and no one talks, giving him time to gather his thoughts.

“I was never quite… Normal,” he says the word as if it pains him, and Geralt wants to tell him to stop — he doesn’t owe any of them anything, least of all Geralt, but he can’t find his voice, “I got hurt and scrapped knees and broke bones as any child, but I took it much harder when our pets died or a servant I liked left our household, to the point of sickness. I was always _overly emotional_ ,” the tone belies the smile on his lips as something he may have heard much more than once, and never in a positive light, “and prone to crying fits and such as a boy. When I was sent to school, it was mostly beaten out of me, so maybe they did put it down to me being… myself,” he ends with a tired sigh, opening his arms and letting them fall at his sides again, “I went to Oxenfurt, and I decided to become a bard, and when I went to visit before setting out, my father told me it might be best to keep moving around than settle down, and I thought it was his distant way of telling me to keep away from them because I was inadequate to their way of life, and I never found it in myself to disagree with that assessment.”

The bard swallows hard at that, clearly trying not to let the feelings associated with this story get the best of him, but a clear sheen of moist could be seen in his eyes.

“After the djinn, though, I knew something wasn’t quite right.”

“Why then?” Yennefer is the one to question this time.

“I noticed I wasn’t aging.”

“Was that all?” she presses, even though her tone is softer than Geralt had come to expect from her when talking to Jaskier.

“No,” he admits after a long moment of silence, eyes briefly glancing at him and then away again, “I could… feel something. Something giving way as the djinn’s curse took hold, even as I started to choke on my own blood. I felt… out of sorts after all of that, and I’m quite sure that is not normal.”

Eskel looks as if he’s about to press on, but a glance from Geralt keeps him quiet — because he does know what it was, doesn’t he?

Jaskier felt it when he pushed him away, and asked for blessed silence.

“I noticed I wasn’t aging, and there was no amount of good skin care that would have kept me from showing the signs of time. So I went home, and gathered as many scraps of information as I could, including the warning to keep moving, lest anyone find out that my father’s line is contaminated by inhuman blood. There was nothing left of the research that preceded my father’s birth, so I made my peace with the fact that I wouldn’t know what I was or how I came to be, and that was just the way things were. Apart from the not aging, it didn’t seem to have any other effects — I still hurt, and bleed, and quite possibly would die of wounds or sickness, so I didn’t see why I should keep searching, or worrying about it,” he scoffs quietly, “I thought I was quarter-elf or so, and that’s why I wasn’t quite aging right.”

“That’s not how it works,” Vesemir says, and Yennefer looks away quickly, “Humans and elves do not mix well, a half-elf may even look human, but their offspring would be… wrong. The genetics do not match.”

Jaskier shrugs at that, looking tired again.

“I can’t tell you more than that, for I do not know. I don’t know what horrors my grandfather pressed upon his unborn child, all I know is that he sent out for… monsters. Sentient creatures. Grandmother told me once they never lived long. When father came into this world as a normal human, she simply thought it had failed, whatever it was her husband did.”

Vesemir nods his head considering the words before speaking.

“Mutations such as those, they need to rewrite your whole body. It’s why witchers went through the Trial of Grasses, and it’s why so few survived it. Not everyone has the ability to take to such extreme change, and that change doesn’t come easily, or in a single generation.”

“So you’re saying my father has it, but it only manifested in me because… I was mixed enough?”

“Something like that. It’s likely that your grandmother’s elven blood is what prevented her death, and your grandfather’s human nature what stopped your father being deformed. I’ve read treatises on such experimentation, long ago, and how it derived from the way witchers were made — a few attempts to breed children ready to be witchers, without the cruelty of the Trials, but it never really worked. The risks were far too high.”

“Apparently not for Granpa dearest,” Jaskier replies with a terse smile.

Everyone is silent after that, eyes on Jaskier who seems to be contemplating something.

“Is there…” he starts haltingly, looking at Vesemir, “Is there a way to find out? What I am, what I was supposed to be? I mean, I definitely don’t mind the not-aging, but I’d very much like to know what could get me in a coma so I could avoid it.”

Vesemir and Yennefer trade a look, and Geralt waits with baited breath — he has to apologize, to make things right, as he promised, but this takes precedence, this is a threat to Jaskier’s very life.

“There are things we can do to at least understand what sort of mutagens exist in your blood, and from there, we can extrapolate the risks and rewards. It’s been a while since I’ve messed with any of it, so I’ll need some time to prepare. And you should rest some more — even if you don’t look like you were dying, you were, all the same. Gather your strength today, settle into one of the warm rooms upstairs, and we’ll talk more at dinner.”

“Thank you again,” Jaskier tells the old witcher, with a real smile this time, no matter how small.

“Come on, bard,” Lambert says before Geralt has the chance to, “I’ll get you to a room with a fire and a bed, and you can laze about while we work. It’s probably the last time you’ll be able to do that too, you have to pull your weight if you’re going to winter here.”

They disappear out the doors, and Jaskier doesn’t spare him a single glance.

“Stop being a coward,” Yennefer tells him, leaving as well.

He takes a deep breath and goes to wake Ciri.

He’s not being a coward, he’s being careful, and they are not the same thing.

At all.

* * *

True to the old witcher’s word, they do leave him alone for most of the day. Lambert turns out to be surprisingly considerate, showing him to a room with a washbasin and some warm water for him to clean himself up a bit, and then taking him to a library. The witcher even shows him kindness enough not to make him go down to the kitchens to eat, instead bringing him some stew and bread, and even a few fresh apples in the late afternoon. Although Lambert doesn’t engage him in conversation for long, they do trade a few words, which makes Jaskier feel slightly better about his position in the old keep. That doesn’t erase his feeling of dread as the day goes by faster than he hopes.

He spends the last few moments of sun dividing his time between staring out the window into the bleak white snow, and feeling miserable for himself, which, quite frankly, he thinks he’s earned. Of all the people in the _Continent_ to find him, it had to be one of the witchers. Of all the witchers, it had to be one of Geralt’s brothers. Of all the people to help him while he was _dying_ , fucking _Yennefer of Vengerberg_.

Of all the people he could have spilled his secrets to, it had to be Geralt, staring at him with eyes filled of pity and guilt.

A small cough catches his attention, and he turns to see Yennefer at the door, walking towards him slowly.

“Vesemir asked me to come find you, says he may have an idea for identifying whatever you are,” Yennefer states, and Jaskier is honestly surprised by the strange kindness in her voice yet again.

“I thought it would take longer,” he says, still tracking her every move as she starts walking slowly by his side, “Might as well get this over with,” he sighs, trying to walk a bit more confidently — he’s regained most of his strength, and if at all possible, he would very much like to get out of this place. He doesn’t quite believe that the way down is _impossible_. “Maybe Vesemir will discover I’m some sort of monster, and they’ll end me right away. That would be one less thorn on your side, wouldn’t it?” he tells the witch with a brilliant smile, and she scoffs at him.

“You are not a thorn, bard — a tiny little prick, at most.”

“Not so tiny, witch,” he replies, and, at times like these, he can almost forget that she isn’t even aware he exists most of the time, and that he doesn’t like her _at all_. She doesn’t have time to answer, as Vesemir waves them into his lab then, closing the door behind them with a sense of finality that Jaskier dreads.

There are a frightening number of terrifying instruments when he finally takes stock of the room, and Jaskier feels his throat go dry in fear.

“This looks… friendly,” he manages to spit out, eying test tubes and contraptions he can’t even begin to imagine the purpose of. When Geralt makes his potions and concoctions, it’s all very straight forward, minced ingredients in a pot and fire under it, but, well, it stands to reason that they’re going to need something _extra_ to deal with him.

The old witcher grunts in acknowledgment of his comment, but doesn’t say anything else for a few minutes, setting up even more vials over more strange curved bronze things before finally turning to talk to him.

“You asked for a way to find out what you are, and this is what I can do without killing and dissecting you,” the man starts, and Jaskier tries to take comfort in the fact that he won’t be killed — or at least not on purpose, and not _now_ , “Any kind of mutations inflicted upon someone leaves traces behind — mutagens. It’s fair to consider that they’ll be in your blood if that is what your grandfather achieved when he experimented. From that, I can try and examine your blood’s composition, and it may show what kind of mutagens you have in you. Every creature, every monster, has a particular set of mutagens in them, from that, you can start to understand why you fell into a slumber so severe you could die from it for apparently no reason.”

Jaskier connects the dots on his own, and is vaguely intrigued by the prospect that Vesemir seems to think he — or better yet, his father, while still in his own mother’s womb — underwent something similar to what witchers did, when they were made.

“You think I’m… like you? A mutant?”

Vesemir takes his time in staring him down, but Jaskier doesn’t flinch — it’s very clear that the man is thinking he’s repulsed, or maybe offended, but then again, in the two decades he was with Geralt on the road, never once did the man talk about his brothers more than in a passing moment, he doubts Geralt would have told Vesemir much about him.

“That a problem?” the old witcher ends up asking, and Jaskier laughs quietly, approaching the equipment slowly, trying to understand how all of it worked and knowing it would be impossible.

“I followed a mutant for twenty years, good sir. I’ve been his friend, even if he says he’s never been mine. I’ve helped whatever I could, and I tried, with all the power I had, to make the continent a little kinder towards him and his. I most definitely don’t have a problem with being a mutant. I’m simply confused as to how that would happen. If I was born such as I am…” he trails off, and Vesemir seems appeased enough to nod at him, and take him at face value.

“To be fair, it’s possible you’re an entirely new race. No mutagens would be found in your blood, and you’d be something _else_.”

“In which case we still wouldn’t have a clue as to what I am, nor whether these… changes gave me anything apart from a very long lifespan, or what caused me to go unconscious for gods know how long, or what managed to bring me back.”

Vesemir merely nods, and Jaskier scoffs again.

“I’d much rather be a mutant.”

The small huff of laugh is enough to set Jaskier’s nerves a little more at ease.

“So, how are we doing this?”

“ _You_ are going to offer me your arm, let me draw some fresh blood, than let the witch heal it, and leave me the hell alone, because this is not an easy process, and I don’t have the time to have you pestering me with questions while I work.”

And sensing the no-nonsense tone the man has, that air of someone who isn’t used to be argued with, Jaskier does just that.

Yennefer looks _bored_ as she heals him, but Jaskier notices she is also a little pale, a little… _less_ than she usually does. And because he’s nervous, and anxious, and waiting on results that may change his whole life, he decides to pester her, because he doubts she’ll kill him now.

He hopes.

“What happened to you?” he asks bluntly, falling into step beside her as they leave Vesemir to his work, and she glances at him quickly, annoyance written on her face.

Yennefer heads to the same library she found him in, and takes a seat. He follows suit, and decides to take a place on an overstuffed armchair that only vaguely smells of humidity and lack of sunlight — the sun is long gone by now, and through the window he can see the moon over the mountains, as the snow has finally let up a little. There’s a fire on, a little ways away from the books, and his fingers itch to go and touch all the covers, to read everything he possibly could get his hands on.

“Sodden.”

He turns abruptly, so lost in his thoughts about books it takes him a second to remember what he asked her.

“I depleted much of my magic during the battle. It’s taking a while to… rebuild itself,” she looks at him then, a look of clear distaste on her features, “Of course, having to keep you alive for the past few days hasn’t helped any.”

Yennefer stares at him with unnerving intensity for a few moments, and he fidgets in his seat, trying to get lost in his thoughts of books again, and failing miserably under her scrutiny.

“Jaskier,” the use of his name is enough to startle his attention back to her again, and while she’s still guarded, there’s something more honest to her eyes now, “What _really_ happened? Before you slept, before you left Creyden.”

“I—” he starts and finds that he doesn’t quite know how to explain it to her without sounding like he’s trying to turn a disease into a ballad, “I felt lost at sea, Yennefer. As if… As if the one thing that was holding me afloat was suddenly taken away, and I could feel myself… dissolving. Fading. Every day that went by, I felt _less_ , a part of me leaving the rest behind and disappearing. I’d sit and stay and stare and do nothing for hours, without even being aware of it. I’d start singing, and not notice I had played a full set, my mind not with me, or maybe not my own again. I was… bereft of a part of myself I couldn’t find, and suddenly, it was like my body just gave up. When those bandits came to take a hold of me, when I looked for help and found nothing, I just…” he shrugs then, raising his eyes to look at Yennefer again, and found her staring right at him.

“For what is worth, I _am_ sorry, Jaskier, for what you went through. If Geralt and I hadn’t had that fight—”

“Oh, please,” he starts, waving a hand at her, “I didn’t almost _die_ because of _Geralt_. If I was going to die because of something he said, I’d be dead fifty times over by now.” She keeps her silence, a single eyebrow raised, and Jaskier wags a finger at her, “You’ll see, Vesemir will find out that I am, I don’t know, the god of slumber, and that’s why I was sleeping. It was all I needed: a long nap. And now I’m fine, no Geralt of fucking Rivia involved.”

“He went to talk to you,” she says, quietly, purple eyes still on his, not allowing him to look away, “He went to talk to you, and I don’t know what he said, or what he did, or even how that affects what you are, but, he went to you, Jaskier. And after days of no response, after he did, you woke up.”

He’s saved from having to answer by Lambert showing up at the door, and it was becoming a very strange impulse to feel relieved whenever he saw that witcher’s face.

“Dinner is ready. And unless the both of you want to eat books, I’d hurry — witchers do not joke around food,” Jaskier laughs quietly, heading out the library, Yennefer a few steps behind.

When they get there, it’s not just the three of them — even Ciri is there, with Geralt, and Eskel on top of that.

As everyone settles around the table, Jaskier looks around himself some more, sensing something familiar about the way these people move around each other. Or at least, at the way the _witchers_ move around each other. It’s clear that Ciri is still getting used to all of this, and Yennefer is very clearly keeping herself apart, but the other four men have that ease around them that only comes from knowing the other for a very long time.

“I apologize for all the inconvenience I’ve been causing,” he says, once he takes a place at the end of the table, and Lambert takes the seat directly beside him, effectively preventing anyone else to sit by his side, “I’ve never thought to impose on any of you, and I’m certain that not knowing what it is that you’re sheltering can’t be easy for a bunch of witchers. Although, if it turns out I’m terribly cursed or a danger to any of you, you can just kill me right here, no need for anyone to go get reinforcements.”

Yennefer is the only one who huffs a small laugh at his joke, and everyone else is suddenly tense.

“To be fair, I don’t expect to have to be killed,” he adds on, trying to calm the mood.

“No need to kill you yet, bard,” Vesemir replies, looking at the end of his patience with the lot of them, and he has just arrived in the kitchen, “Although I may not be averse to cutting your tongue if you don’t learn to talk a little less.”

Jaskier almost shows him his tongue in spite, but he refrains — this man has his very history, the history of his blood and curse in his hands, it may not be a good idea to antagonize him so.

As they start to eat, he’s slightly startled to see Ciri eating with almost as much ravenous abandon as any of the witchers, and she blushes when she catches his eye.

“How long have you been here?” he ends up asking, looking between Ciri and Yennefer, who are seated across from him, and ignoring Geralt as much as he can.

“A week, give or take,” Yennefer answers, “It took us a while to get up the mountain after Sodden.”

He nods slightly, filling his mouth with food, and hoping someone would talk to fill the silence — he’s never been good with silences.

“How long did you stay in Creyden?” Yennefer asks him then, “It might give us a better sense of how long you were asleep for if you can remember.”

“I—” he stops, trying to calculate, and he can’t. It was all such a blur of sadness and strangeness, he can’t tell, “Honestly, I have no idea. I don’t believe I was with the bandits for more than a week, though. Surely they weren’t planning on carrying an unconscious bard all the way to Kerack.”

“Why there?” Lambert asks him then, “I heard them talking about it, but—” he trails off, as if thinking he may have asked for too much, but Jaskier answers all the same. He may not go around advertising his lineage, but it’s not a secret.

“Well, my family is from Kerack. They were probably trying to get a ransom.”

“Would anyone even pay?” Yennefer asks taking a sip of the drink she has in her hand while a smile plays on her lips, and he looks at her with disdain on his features.

“ _Of course_ they would pay. I may be strange, and I may be a bard, but I’m still the only son my father has, and I’ve never been disowned. It wouldn’t do not to pay for the ransom of a Viscount.”

“You’re a _noble_?” Ciri asks then, her eyes wide in surprise, and he nods, swallowing his food before speaking again.

“Not that I care about that, but yes.”

“Makes sense,” Vesemir inputs then, “It’s not cheap to cook up a new race. And no commoner would have been able to do it without hanging for it,” he takes a deep drink from his cup then, before going on, his voice still gruff, but with an edge to his voice that Jaskier starts to recognize as humor, “Besides who would wander the whole damn continent with red jackets and silk doublets, if not a noble?”

Most of the others laugh at that, Jaskier with them, but then he makes the mistake of catching Geralt’s eye with his own, and the man looks… sad.

There’s no other word for it, Geralt looks sad.

Jaskier looks away, and starts trying to make conversation with Ciri, eventually engaging her in a story from the court of Cintra, from before even her parents were dead. He doesn’t look toward Geralt’s direction for the rest of the meal, and when he gets up to go to his assigned room, he’s more grateful than would be normal when Eskel offers to guide him back to it.

Whether Geralt is sad or not, it’s none of Jaskier’s business. Not anymore.

* * *

The next day, he’s up bright and early, which would be unusual, if he hadn’t already spent half the night awake at any rate, anxious about the results Vesemir may or may not have gotten about his own blood.

He goes by the kitchens, sneaks some bread out, and makes his way to the old man’s lab, pacing in front of the closed door, until the witcher himself opens it and waves him in, a look of deep exasperation on his face.

“So, what’s the verdict?” he asks impatiently, and Vesemir hands him a single strip of very fine glass with a strange swirling pattern upon it, the whole of it glowing a faint blue.

“It appears you are not _quite_ a mutant,” he starts slowly, “You said your father didn’t show any signs of power throughout his life?”

Jaskier shakes his head negatively, staring at the blue pattern still. That thing was _in his blood_.

“And he’s aging normally?”

“As far as I know, yes. I don’t exactly keep in touch, but last I saw him, there was gray in his hair, wrinkles around his eyes.”

Vesemir nods consideringly. He’s startled out of his thoughts by a quiet knock, and then Yennefer is coming in, a single eyebrow raised in his direction, as if daring him to complain that she is here.

“I thought you two might appreciate the input of a mage,” she explains simply, as if by that alone she’d be allowed in, and, well, Jaskier doesn’t care either way.

“When would you say you started noticing things were different? When did you stop aging, do you remember?” Vesemir goes on as if there’s no interruption, and Jaskier stops to think, tries to remember the moment he _stopped_ changing, and with a shudder, he realizes it was with the djinn.

After almost dying, after _Geralt’s wish_ almost killed him.

After they met Yennefer.

“The djinn. I… I think I was aging normally until then.”

“It would make sense…” the sorceress say, a considering look on her face, “From what Geralt told me about the whole mess, you _should_ have gotten the wishes. You were the one who opened the seal, who set it free, but it didn’t cling to you, but to _Geralt,_ ” she says, turning to look at him with a light in her eyes as if she’s puzzling this mystery he is before he or Vesemir can, “And the wish he made, to ask for _peace_ when you were the one talking, with the way djinns work, you should have dropped dead right then, but that didn’t happen either.”

“What does that _mean_?” he finally asks, turning to Vesemir, because Yennefer seems to have understood something he doesn’t, and it’s very discomfiting.

“You see that in your hand?” the witcher asks then, and, again, Jaskier’s eyes are drawn to the strip of light blue on glass, “Those are Stribog’s mutagens. _That_ is in your blood.”

“What’s a… Strigob?” he asks again, slight panic in his voice.

“Stribog. A relict creature,” Yennefer answer, her eyes wide, “I didn’t think there were any left.”

Vesemir shrugs then, looking grave.

“There probably aren’t. Mutagens can be preserved for years, and maybe, all of that,” he motions to the thing in Jaskier’s hand, “came from one killed centuries ago. Or maybe they just had the common sense to disappear from populated areas, lest humans hunt them down.”

“Why? Why would they hunt them down, what is _this_?” he demands again, voice higher and angrier than he wants it to be, because he knows they are trying to help him, but this not-explanation isn’t doing that at all.

“They are spirits of air,” Vesemir tells him, his voice calm, as if talking to a scared animal, “Some say they were the gods of the winds, a connection between air and earth, and all its creatures. They are also a kind of djinn.”

“And the human hunting them thing?” he prods, fear creeping in his voice.

“They weren’t quite as violent as djinns, you couldn’t trap them in a bottle and use them for wishes, but they _could_ create a strong connection to the land they protected, or even to the people they chose to keep as their own. They would protect them, and make their lives easier — nothing malicious about them by themselves, but when humans find a creature that can give them something, they tend to explore it until they pervert that creature into something it’s not meant to be. A guardian spirit, a god of the winds, a connection between air, and earth and humans, if bound to the wrong kind of people, if ignorant of their ill intent before it gave themselves to them, it could be used as a weapon. Many races died out like this, or hid so far deep nature, none can find them. Godlings, stribogs, leshen, djinns — they are not monsters, they are beings whose only purpose is to make the land they protect better. But they were abused, or driven out, or perverted — or they simply vanished.”

Something almost breaks inside Jaskier then — a crack which started to open back at the edge of the world, hearing Filavandrel’s story about his people, and it’s now a gaping hole in his soul, because this is him too.

He _is_ who — _what_ — he is because someone hunted that poor creature down and took what wasn’t theirs to sell to an ignorant human who called himself a noble but wouldn’t know nobility if it slapped him in the face.

“And—” he starts, and has to clear his throat before continuing, “And the sleeping thing?”

“Once a stribog was bound to someone, the only way for them to be free was to have that person send them away, to wish themselves free of it. But to have that, the stribog would vanish. Perhaps becoming something else, there are theories that say all djinns come from a stribog who was rejected; or maybe just—”

“Fading,” he completes, his voice quiet, because that feeling, the emptiness, the losing track of time and sense of self — he was fading.

“It is possible,” Vesemir tells him, after a few quiet moments, “that when the djinn struck you with its magic, the mutagens were… awoken, for lack of a better term. Something dormant came awake at the prospect of human death, and you changed with it.”

“Could there be more?” Yennefer asks then, startling Jaskier again. He had mostly forgotten the witch is still with them, “It seems strange that only _bad_ side-effects would carry through his blood.”

“That would be fucking unfair,” he agrees, his voice mostly muffled by the sheer _terror_ he is feeling.

He would have _died_. He would have died because Geralt made a wish for him to leave. Because, having absolutely no sense whatsoever, he gave his heart and his protection to that idiot of a man, to that mule of a witcher, and then he could have _died_.

“We could try training you — you shouldn’t have the same power as a stribog or a djinn itself, much like witchers don’t have the same powers as monsters, but there could be some benefits to having these mutagens.”

“Wouldn’t I have found some of these abilities? I mean, one should think I’d discover if I could grant wishes, or… or… make it rain or something to that effect.”

“I doubt you tried anything that would be in your scope of ability, mostly because you didn’t know you could,” Yennefer reasons, “It isn’t like you’d go around _trying_ to do any of those things.”

He is quiet at that, going back to staring at the blue strip — to think that thing is _in_ him, that he isn’t quite human… It’s a strange thought indeed.

“Now, if you two don’t have anything better to do, I do,” Vesemir tells them, shooing them out of his lab. Before he is quite out, Jaskier turns to him again.

“Thank you, Vesemir. You’ve done more for me than you could possibly know.”

The man nods at him gravely.

“You’re welcome. Most of all because I can see exactly how Geralt got you into this mess. You shouldn’t have to do this alone when it’s his responsibility as well.”

Jaskier bites his lips for a second, not wishing to get into the whole Geralt thing because he just doesn’t have the energy.

“Are you quite sure there’s no way down the mountain, at all?” he asks, a tiny bit of desperation in his voice, and Vesemir almost smiles at him.

“Afraid not, bard. You’re stuck here for winter,” he clasps Jaskier on the shoulder, and almost brings him to his knees, “It’s a big keep, though. I’m sure you’ll be able to avoid Geralt for three months.”

And with that, he leaves them in the corridor. Jaskier turns to Yennefer then.

“No chance of a portal?”

“If there was, do you think I’d be here still?” she asks him, and he sighs — bard and sorceress walking down the corridor then, heading out into the keep, seeking any place where Geralt of Rivia isn’t.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this fandom is just BEAUTIFUL. Thank you so much for all your comments, some of which made me want to cry. Fuck, but I missed writing.
> 
> I'm glad you seem to enjoy Lambert - I may write something focused on him later on, boy needs some love, poor thing. 
> 
> Also, the song used further down the chapter is my favorite from the Nextflix adaptation. You can listen to it [here](https://youtu.be/E2bNdbAcQSI).

Yennefer leaves him by the stairs to go looking for Ciri — apparently, she has been teaching _something_ to the Princess, and, although he doesn’t quite trust Yennefer yet, he also knows the woman would never hurt a child.

He hopes. 

Left to his own devices, barely noticing he is still carrying the strip of glass in his hand, he wanders around the keep for a while, managing to absolutely lose himself in the corridors, and having no idea how to get back to the inhabited parts of it.

“Eskel owes me money — I bet him you’d get lost first time you were left on your own.”

The voice startles him, but he manages a small smile when he sees Lambert coming his way, a smile on the man’s lips as well.

“It seems a sense of direction does not come with my power package,” he tells the man, waving the strip of glass around. Lambert stops by his side, taking his wrist in his hand, and bringing the small piece of glass up to his eye level while not taking it from Jaskier.

“Air spirit?”

Jaskier manages to be impressed.

“Yes. A stribog, apparently. How did you know?”

Lambert lets go of his arm, and nods towards a corridor, which Jaskier takes to mean for a request to follow him, and he does. Of all the people in the keep, Lambert is the one he doesn’t suspect of ulterior motives — well, him and Ciri, but the Princess already has more than enough on her plate, without adding a sad bard into the mix.

“The patterns in the mutagens are all very similar in elemental creatures. That kind of blue swirling thing is found on most air beings. I’m not sure I’ve met a stribog before, though,” he adds with a small frown, clearly trying to recall said creature from a hunt.

“Apparently, you wouldn’t have. Vesemir seems to think they’ve died out or hid away. It would be nice to have more information on this, though — I’d hate to fall asleep again because someone wishes I was somewhere else.”

Abruptly changing direction, and grasping Jaskier’s arm briefly to guide him down another corridor, Lambert sneaks a glance at him, suspicion written all over his face.

“Geralt asked you to leave?”

Jaskier seriously considers not answering, but, in the end, what has he got to lose? He can’t very well deny it when they all saw him unconscious for days, now can he?

“More like he asked for the blessing of me being taken off his hands.”

“And because of that,” he nods to the glass, “you took it to heart, and slept?”

Jaskier shrugs as they start climbing some stairs.

“I think the sleeping was more a side-effect.”

Lambert nods at him, and they keep walking — he’s not sure _why_ he’s still following the man, but he’s never been good with being alone. He likes company, and Lambert hasn’t objected to being followed yet (unlike other witchers who shall remain nameless).

Finally, Lambert opens the doors to a room, and Jaskier sees another library — this one bigger than the room he had been before, with wide double doors at one end, giving way to a balcony overlooking the keep’s grounds.

“This is the _official_ library. Vesemir spends a lot of his time in here rather than on the Path nowadays, so we all bring books to add to the collection. It helps pass the time when the rush of the beginning of winter is over, and we are all cooped up in here without being able to even get to the grounds because of the cold or the snow. The one downstairs is mostly human-friendly books — history and literature, mostly — but this one has a pretty good collection on creatures,” Lambert stops talking, and gestures broadly at the shelves behind him, “Have at it.”

Jaskier is stunned into silence for a moment.

“Are— Are you sure this is fine? I mean—”

Lambert scoffs at him, and starts browsing the shelves, running his hands over book spines, and picking up a few on his way.

“I don’t think Vesemir would like humans to read about this, and if we do find any of our history in one of your songs, he’ll probably follow through with cutting your tongue out, but you’re clearly not human, and you need answers, so.” The witcher just shrugs, as if that’s a simple conclusion to a simple problem, and Jaskier eyes the pile of books he sets on a table close to him incredulously, before turning his full attention to Lambert again.

“Why didn’t I meet _you_ in Posada all those years ago?”

Lambert laughs at that.

“Because I’m not stupid enough to be caught dead in _Posada_.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to laugh at that.

“Yes, they did _not_ know to appreciate fine music.”

“And also took a sylvan for a demon, which concludes the case,” Lambert adds, “Here — this one has plenty of information on air creatures of all kinds,” he continues, handing Jaskier a book, “And on those shelves, you’ll find more specifics, even though I can’t remember the order in which Vesemir puts them away, so if you don’t want to have to check them out one by one, you might have to ask him. There’s some writing things on that desk if you want to make some notes,” he steps away, not seeming to notice how overwhelming this is for the bard, “If you need anything, just shout — I’m a few corridors down fixing some windows this morning. If not, I’ll come by to pick you up for lunch.”

Jaskier has a lump in his throat, because in all his years on the road, he has rarely been shown this much kindness by _anyone_ , let alone a witcher.

“Lambert, I— Thank you. I don’t think I can ever thank you enough for what you’ve done to me.”

“Yes, well, it’s nothing.”

And with that, the man vanishes from the room, leaving Jaskier to his own research.

* * *

A few hours down the road, Jaskier is about to start setting books on fire — don’t get him wrong, he loves a good story, a long book filled with new knowledge he can explore, but there is a reason for him to be a traveling bard and not a professor at Oxenfurt year long, and that reason is that he hates dry, academic texts with every ounce of his being, and these books on creatures are drier than the Korath.

True to his word, Lambert had come by around noon with food for them both, which they ate in the balcony, enjoying the weak sunlight, and then the witcher went back to his work, leaving Jaskier to his books, but he’s starting to think he may as well go and offer to help the other man with rebuilding, because he feels as though his eyes are about to start bleeding.

“Bloody witchers, and their bloody lack of communication skills,” he grumbles, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand over them. It’s like the text actually filled his vision with actual sand.

“Having trouble?” a darkly amused voice asks, ad he groans out loud this time.

“I’m starting to think my theory about being dead and in hell is right — why else why I still be tormented by you, of all people?” he throws back, finally opening his eyes when he hears a chair being pulled across from him at the table.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Yennefer tells him, with the air of someone deeply put upon.

“If you do not enjoy my vast range of emotion and the manner in which I express them, I do believe that element right there is a door, and you can just go back the way you came.”

Yennefer scoffs at him, and Jaskier decides to ignore her completely — even the dry retellings of witchers and their monsters is better than engaging in a battle of wills with Yennefer of Vengerberg, and a better use of his time on top of that.

“I have a proposition,” she tells him after a few minutes of silence, and Jaskier eyes her over the book he’s trying to read.

“I believe the safest answer with you is always _no_. But thank you.”

“You do want to keep at these texts, and then trying to work whatever powers you may have on your own, instead of under the tutelage of a trained mage?” she asks him, voice dripping with sweetness.

“ _Want_ is a bit of a strong word. _Have to_ is a more apt description. I don’t know how well you remember our interactions, Yennefer, but they never did turn out the better for me. I have enough on my plate at this moment not to want to be entangled in your—” he gestures towards her vaguely, “— everything.”

She is quiet after that, and he goes back to reading — truth is he is not making much headway into this whole creature thing. Djinns are rare enough creatures, but they still did damage enough that witchers had to deal with them occasionally. But stribogs were pacific — when they did cause trouble, it was usually a matter of dealing with the _humans_ commanding them than the creature itself, which means that there is very little information about them in the books he’s managed to read so far, because witchers do not much care about monsters unless they have to kill them.

It’s a frankly scary insight into their lives.

“Did Geralt ever tell you what he wished for?”

Jaskier sighs deeply before replying making it a point not to look away from the book.

“As Geralt made _abundantly_ clear, we are not _friends_ , so no. He never did confide in me what his precious last wish was.”

“He connected our fates,” Yennefer tells him, and Jaskier stops.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he raises his eyes from the book, and stares at Yennefer, who is staring right back at him, with an expression he can only describe as _done_.

“He did _what_?”

“He connected our fates. On his defense, I don’t think he was wrong on his assumption that it was the only way he could guarantee that both he and I would leave that room alive — but, you see, I do not enjoy having my choices taken away from me.”

Her voice is hard as steel, but underneath it all, Jaskier can sense a world of hurt.

“No,” he says quietly, remembering all the tales he’s heard about how sorceresses were made, “I don’t imagine you would.”

He sets the book on the table, giving up all pretense of trying to read while Yennefer is in the room with him, and stares at her for a quiet moment.

“Is that why you fought? After talking to Borch?”

“What do you think, bard?” she replies, angry and hurt clear on her whole demeanor, and Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen this much _reality_ on Yennefer before.

“I’m sorry. Actually, I’m sorry for all of that whole disaster — it seems that damn djinn is the beginning of all our troubles.”

She huffs a small laugh, hands turning a small piece of charcoal over and over on the table.

“Well, to be fair, if Geralt hadn’t thought that finding a _djinn_ to cure _insomnia_ was a valid idea, the poor djinn wouldn’t have been in that position at all.”

“For someone who claims not to believe in Destiny, he does do his best to tempt it, doesn’t he? Finding a djinn to take a nap, claiming the Law of Surprise as a joke, making wishes involving fate… How is he even alive by this point?” 

The same small laugh follows his question, and they keep quiet for a while. Jaskier, of course, breaks first.

“All right, Yennefer, what is your proposition?” he asks in a tired voice. He thought he could keep away from this whole mess, but clearly, he was wrong.

“As you imagine, I’m quite good at magic,” she starts in a haughty tone that Jaskier is starting to identify as the one she uses when she is _joking_.

“Of course,” he agrees easily, pleased when her eyes soften a little.

“I can identify the magic linking us together. I can sense it, and I can see how it intertwines our lives. That is no easy feat, but a dedicated few days of study when you have no power to do much else, and I can say with certainty that I _know_ what it is, and I can understand how it could be undone.”

“But you can’t do it yourself,” he says, not as a question, but as a fact — how frustrating it must be for a sorceress of her power to _know_ something, and not be able to _use_ it.

“I’m a conduit of chaos, it’s where my powers come from. We draw it from wherever we can, but it’s unsteady energy — I give it form and purpose because I can manipulate it,” she explains, and Jaskier nods along, “I cannot, however, manipulate _that_ kind of energy. _Elemental_ energy.”

“And you think I could.”

She inclines her head in agreement, suddenly looking very business-like.

“It stands to reason that an air spirit would be able to manipulate it enough to… snap it, so to speak. It’s not a material wish, you wouldn’t have to _undo_ anything tangible, and on top of that, there is already a strain on that bond — neither I nor Geralt truly want this bond between us.”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment longer, looking away from her.

“Are you quite sure about that?” he asks in an almost whisper, and Yennefer is silent. When he looks up, he sees her staring out into the snow which has started up again, her face a blank mask.

“I liked Geralt when I first met him. The thing I liked most about him was his loyalty to _you_ ,” she turns to him then, something akin to envy on her eyes, “He came into a sorceress’ liar, in the middle of an orgy, might I add, carrying you on his back easily, and demanded I heal you, at any cost. No fear about what it would cost _him_ , what I could ask him to do, no self-preservation whatsoever. Just because you were endangered. To have that? That loyalty, that trust? He would have to be an admirable man,” she pauses, looking away from him again, as if ashamed of showing real emotions for once, “But this… twisted thing pushing us together at every chance, this… _burn_ to get close whenever we are around each other? It’s unnatural. It’s not what I wanted to have, and it most definitely is not what he wanted to give. I want it gone, Jaskier,” she looks at him again, “I want to be the one who determines my own fate, it’s the one thing I’ve always wanted. To have my own life in my own hands.”

“So you’re proposing to help me figure this whole stribog thing out in exchange for me taking the wish away.”

“If you are even able to, yes. I won’t hold it against you if you can’t — you are the same kind of spirit, but it may not be enough.”

Jaskier sighs heavily, knowing that this may be his best option at getting a glimpse into what he is actually capable of.

“We have a deal,” he offers her his hand, and she shakes it with the air of an adult indulging a very small child.

Yennefer then sits back, hands folded on her lap as she examines him as one might a curious bug.

“Now, I need to know _exactly_ what happened to make you fall asleep. What you felt, for how long, and what are the last things you remember.”

That stops him short, because he doesn’t know if he _wants_ to share that, not with anyone. He knows what happened, now that he has a small frame of reference to extrapolate from.

“Why?”

“Because then we can start to establish what kind of relation translated into your genes from the stribog proper, and from there, we can start training you to access it for more than randomly going unconscious. I see the appeal you might find in being a perpetual damsel in distress — you play that part quite nicely — but it might be prudent to have more to your own arsenal than that.”

He splutters at being called _damsel in distress_ , but, oh well — fair enough.

They did find him in an enchanted sleep, after all.

“It happened when the bandits came for me,” he tells her, trying his very best to keep any emotion out of his voice — she might be helping him, but she doesn’t need any ammunition against him when this small truce of theirs is over, “I was in Creyden, and a small part of me… Well, I thought Geralt would come find me. I didn’t quite believe he would apologize, but even when we had arguments before, we’ve always found each other again. When days passed, and he didn’t come, I thought I might as well get on with it and leave, but I still believe he’d come _back_. When the bandits caught up to me, and no one showed up to help, that’s when I knew I had been left behind. From what Vesemir said, it’s probably when I felt rejected enough to be set free — by now I’m just thinking I was lucky enough that whatever grandfather did screwed up enough of my genes that I didn’t just die right away.”

“Are you telling me you’ve never been rejected before?” Yennefer asks him, her look of superiority and incredulity less hurtful now that they have talked, “One would think you’d spend half your life asleep if that was enough.”

He scoffs quietly, looking down.

“No. I’ve been scorned plenty of times. I’m telling you that this was the first time _I cared_.”

“So you think it was when you accepted you were rejected by the one you chose to protect?” she goes on, and he nods back at her.

“Most likely. I don’t know how much protection I was actually doing, but I do know that up until that moment, I thought Geralt and I were… a unit.”

“And now?”

He laughs quietly, a bitterness he doesn’t like twisting in his gut.

“Now, I’d just like to understand what I am, and not give my heart away to anyone, ever again, so I won’t have to go through any of this shit once more.”

Yennefer is quiet for a long moment, before she, too, sighs, and gets up.

“I believe we have enough to start — I’m training with Ciri in the afternoons, so get ready to be up bright and early, little bard. Your training starts tomorrow.”

He pretends he doesn’t see her smiling when he groans in response.

* * *

That night, he is on his way to his own room after dinner, when the heavy footsteps behind him make him stop and sigh.

Jaskier stops and turns slowly, too tired to put up a real fight when Geralt stops as well, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

He should have expected this, truly, when Geralt kept stealing glances at him throughout dinner, but he decided to ignore it to spare his own sanity. Talking to Geralt now, trying to get themselves sorted out while he doesn’t even know what he is properly is a path paved with madness, but he is also too tired to effectively try to avoid it for much longer.

“I want to talk,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier only turns around, going to his room, and leaving the door open.

He puts a log in the fire, hearing Geralt come in and close the door behind him, taking a seat on the bed when he’s done, and staring at Geralt as the other man apparently gathers the strength to pronounce more than two words at a time.

“When you were asleep, I—” the witcher takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, his hands forming fists by his sides, “I promised you I’d apologize if you woke up. So. I’m sorry,” he says haltingly, staring at Jaskier as if he’s done something meaningful.

Something he in no way did.

“Is that all?” he asks, voice as cold as he can make it.

“Jaskier—” Geralt tries, but Jaskier gets up from the bed, shaking his head, and it seems he’s upset enough Geralt doesn’t even come closer.

“ _If life could give me one blessing_ ,” he hisses, stopping and turning to Geralt, fully aware that he’s not any more menacing than a weed, but filled with enough anger to try, “ _it would be to take you off my hands_.”

There’s silence after that, and Jaskier lets it linger for a long moment.

“I’m off your hands, witcher. No need to apologize for something you’re very clearly not sorry for.”

“I am,” Geralt answers, moving towards him for the first time, and immediately stopping when Jaskier takes a step back, “I am sorry.”

“What for?” Jaskier presses, and Geralt closes his eyes again, but for once, Jaskier doesn’t care. He’s made a career out of filling the silences and making things easier for this man, but no more.

He deserves better than that.

“I shouldn’t have said those things. You didn’t deserve them. When I went after you, and I saw you had left, I— I didn’t think you’d _leave_ on your own like that. I shouldn’t have said any of it — they are not true.”

And that’s what does it — that admission that, even after all he said, all he did, Geralt still thought he wouldn’t leave him behind, would stay, to be stepped on some more.

“It’s not what you said, Geralt!” he finally snaps, turning his back on the man who could easily throw him out the window and not even make an effort, and not caring _at all_ , “It’s that you _knew you could_. That you could take all of your life’s misery and anger and shittiness, and throw it at me, as if I was responsible! And now you openly admit that you were expecting me to _stick around_? That you were _surprised_ I wasn’t waiting for you? That I _left_?” he laughs bitterly, running a hand through his already messy hair, “The worst part is that it wouldn’t have even mattered, would it?”

When he turns back to Geralt, it’s to see the man shrinking on himself, or as much as he could, as if the words are physically hurting him. It gives him a second of pause, but then, well, _good_. Let him feel a tenth of what Jaskier felt at that mountain and the weeks that followed.

“If I _had_ stayed, put my tail between my legs and followed you around like a fucking dog, it wouldn’t have mattered. Everything would go back to how it was before, because that’s how it went. And next time Yennefer got mad at you, or you got stuck with something because you decided you know better than _Destiny_ , you would have gone right back to blaming me, because you got used to it,” he stops then, looking so very, very tired, “And it is partially my fault, because I _let_ you.”

He sags on the bed again, so very, very tired all of a sudden, the fight gone from him just as quickly as it came.

“You scoffed at me, and disdained my work even when it helped you, and you mocked me for a thousand things I wasn’t even aware were flaws until you came along. And I let you. Because I—” he stops, taking a deep breath, as if in physical pain before going on, “Because I loved you.”

Jaskier hears the sharp intake of breath that causes, but he keeps his eyes closed, not bearing to look at Geralt right now.

“But I can’t do this song and dance anymore. I could have _died_ , Geralt. I didn’t know what I was doing, sure, but I gave you whatever I could, and in repayment, you blamed every single wrong thing in your life on me. I was lucky the bandits knew who I was and didn’t just take my life for a few coins and a lute. I was lucky Lambert found me — hell, I was even lucky Yennefer was here and has offered to help me, but I could have died, because you don’t know how to deal with what you feel, and you blame it on the world… On me. I’m not used to doing this very often, and it pains me a great deal to say it, but I need you to stay away from me until I have this figured out. Until I know I can look at you and not offer you the power to destroy me again, because I know I won’t always have the amount of luck I had this time.”

“I’m sorry,” the witcher repeats, more emotion on his voice now than Jaskier thinks he’s ever heard before, and he smiles sadly at Geralt, his own eyes filled with tears.

“Then prove it, and give me some space and time so I can say I forgive you without it being a lie.”

Geralt nods at him once, curtly, and leaves, the door closing softly behind him, and Jaskier allows himself a few moments of the deep sadness he’s been trying to avoid for weeks now.

That night, he cries himself to sleep, and sleep is a long time coming.

* * *

The next few days fall into an easy, yet strange, routine, of training with Yennefer in the mornings, following either Lambert or Eskel or Vesemir around the keep, trying to be useful — and failing more often than not — and finding some quiet, yet warm, part of the keep in the evening to play and compose.

None of his new songs are quite right for singing in Kaer Morhen right now, so he knows to compose and sing on his own.

He and Ciri sometimes team up in training, when the mornings are too cold for the girl to go out and practice with swords and daggers and whatever else she is demanding the witchers teach her — and it is quite a scary prospect that she takes to their training like a duckling to water —, but Yennefer doesn’t seem to think their progress is anything to brag about.

“I am starting to understand why Tissaia was in a perpetual bad mood when I was a girl,” she tells them that morning, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Jaskier wants to laugh, but is too afraid to lose his fingers or his vocal chords if he does so, and Ciri merely looks despondent, which is the clue for Yennefer’s whole demeanor to soften.

“It’s not that you’re not doing well, Ciri believe me. You are a wonderful student, and you do have the potential. It’s just a little… _challenging_ to find the right way to explain these things to either of you, when I’m used to doing it one way, and your particular branches of magic don’t seem to work quite in the same manner.”

The girl nods, still looking discouraged, and when she asks to be released from this class, and takes off running as soon as Yennefer agrees, Jaskier turns to look at the sorceress with a smile.

“You do realize she was doing that so she could get out of the lesson.”

Yennefer scoffs, retaking her seat regally, and throwing her shiny hair behind her shoulders.

“Yes. But it is a good lesson for her, she needs to be able to manipulate others if she’s ever going to make it into court. If she’s to become a queen, she should learn these things as well.”

Jaskier hums in thought for a moment.

“You think she will?”

Her purple gaze turns to him, doubt clear in her eyes.

“Do you think she’ll want to, after knowing the freedom this life could give her?” she asks back, and Jaskier can’t say he disagrees.

He’s the one who became a traveling bard instead of being burdened by the responsibilities of his title, and he was merely a Viscount. He can’t even begin to fathom what it would mean to rule a whole _country_.

“Regardless,” Yennefer continues, “She is still making much more progress than you.”

His sigh is half discontentment and half will to annoy the sorceress because he knows she hates it.

“I just… I understand what you are trying to say, but I can’t… grasp it.”

They’ve been at it for a week, and he’s no closer to _feeling_ his magic than he is to learning how to fly. He’s starting to think it was all a fluke, and he has no magic whatsoever — if not for the actual physical proof on that tiny slip of glass, he would just give up.

“Would you allow me to guide you?” she offers suddenly, and Jaskier is immediately on guard — the request too formal, her tone too light. This cannot possibly be a good sign for him.

“What does that entail?”

“When I was a novice in Aretuza, I had some trouble with reading minds. To be quite honest, until I discovered a safe way to guide my emotions through chaos, I had trouble with many branches of magic, but a friend helped me understand it a bit better by showing me how it was done. He couldn’t explain it with words, so he guided me through it — it can be a little overwhelming, which is why I hadn’t offered, but I don’t fancy spending the whole winter trying to teach you the hard way when I can offer a shortcut.”

“Does that mean we’re friends as well?” he teases, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“I should hope so,” she answers, instead of the instant denial he was expecting, “I would hate to waste all this time and effort and not come out the other side without an air spirit as back up should I need it.”

He can’t contain the laugh that the declarations startle out of him, and nods at her, then, not even flinching when she rests both hands at either side of his face, trusting she won’t harm him.

What happens next is not what he’s expecting at all.

He feels as though there is a second voice in his mind, a second vocal to the songs he sings, and the thoughts he thinks — a shadow following along and tracing what makes him _him_. He dives deep, as Yennefer has tried to teach him, trying to find that part of himself that should be connected to the earth and sky, air and dirt, but all he finds is… sound. Again.

Jaskier isn’t sure what she finds in his head or how long they were connected, but when Yennefer pulls away, she looks puzzled.

“Have you tried singing?” she questions, and Jaskier looks at her as if she’s insane — which, she kind of _is_ , but not in this way.

“I’m a _bard_ , Yen. Singing is what I _do_.”

“Exactly,” she tells him, already getting up from the chair, and motioning him up. “Go grab your lute, and meet me in the front yard. We’ll need space, in case things get a little out of control.”

And then she’s off.

Grabbing his lute, and putting on a thicker coat — which clashes terribly with his complexion, but he’s grateful for having at all, given that his things were wholly inappropriate for the winter he’s facing — he meets Yennefer in the front yard, where she set up a blanket on the ground. When he takes a seat, he’s pleasantly surprised to find that it is magically warmed, and he sinks into it.

“Right,” she starts, once he’s settled, “I shouldn’t be surprised to discover that mostly you translate your feeling into melodies — not always full-fledged songs, but notes and lyrics and, most importantly, rhythm. By looking into your mind, I assumed I could guide you through the process of finding your own form of conduit, but it seems you _have_ one, and haven’t been using it: your music. When you play, a part of your soul goes into it, you weave your own feelings and thoughts into it, and it takes form — it’s probably why your witcher song caught on so fast, and why it has actually _worked_ in improving their reputation. There is magic in it, just like every song that is deeply personal to you. Such as, dare I say, _Her Sweet Kiss_.”

He blushes as she says it, and shrugs as a small apology. The song does no harm, but he’s rarely sung it without causing full inns and taverns to burst into tears as he does, even though it’s not a particularly sad song.

“What I want you to try is channeling that _purposefully_. And, if at all possible, while trying to connect to the elements you have at your disposal. _Feel_ the song, and the air, and wind and put it into music, into lyrics, into _song_.”

“You’re saying I’ll have to bring out my lute and compose a song every time I attempt this? Because it seems a lot of work.”

She rolls her eyes at him again.

“I meant to say that, once you find this connection, you’ll be able to feel it, and nurture it, until it becomes nothing more than another sense at your disposal, as natural as breathing. But it takes _practice_ , and if you need a little crutch to start, then so be it.”

He considers what she’s saying, fingers dancing on the strings in a nervous little strum.

“So I just… sing?”

“So you just _do as I say_ , and try to do what you did with my song, and Geralt’s song, but this time, _on purpose,_ ” she enunciates clearly, almost a threat, but he’s been too expose to it by now to pay it any attention.

His fingers keep playing with the strings, not really a song, just lose notes.

Taking a deep breath, he decides to let lose something he’s been working on his own, when he knows no-one, not even witchers, can hear him.

If it’s emotion he needs to connect to his magic, well, it’s not like this particular song lacks in it.

“ _The call of the white wolf is loudest at the dawn. The call of a stone heart is broken and alone.”_

His fingers still dance gently on the strings, and Jaskier closes his eyes, not noticing the four witchers and a princess on the steps above them, now watching bard and witch with caution in their eyes.

“ _Born of Kaer Morhen, born of no love_ ,” not fighting against the onslaught, he allows a tear to slip down his cheek, and keeps singing, unaware of the wind picking up around them, a tiny vortex around him and Yennefer, _“The song of the White Wolf is cold as driven snow_.”

When he feels something icy land on his hand, he looks up, notes still ringing in the air, and his fingers still strumming the slow melody, but his eyes are wide as rain, cold and thin, like a thousand tiny knives falling all around them — around them, and no further.

Yennefer nods at him, and he keeps going, easier now that he’s started, song coming out as if purging his very soul of the feelings it contains.

_“Bear not your eyes upon him lest steel or silver draw; lay not your breast against him, nor lips to ease his roar. For the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone, the song of the White Wolf will always be sung alone.”_

As the rhythm of the song picks up, it becomes easier to understand this strange connection he’s always felt and never quite realized wasn’t normal, wasn’t the same for every bard, everywhere — something calls to him in the air, in the wind picking up, in the rain turn sleet turn snow again, bathing him and Yennefer in pure, white flakes, and that is not as cold as he would have expected. He gets lost in this sensation, in the way he can feel his spirit sing along his song, purging him from the loneliness, and fear, and sadness it has, and setting it free, letting it rage all around him.

 _“Cast not your eyes upon him_ ,” he starts again, faster this time, and he can _swear_ he hears the voice of the wind echoing his words — and by the look on Yennefer’s face, she can heart it too, “ _lest he kiss you with his sword. Lay not your heart against him or your lips to ease his roar. For the song of the White Wolf we’ll always sing alone,_ ” he finishes it slowly, going back to easy strums and light fingers, closing his eyes as the last note dies on the silence around them, and when he opens them again, Yennefer looks awfully proud of herself.

“Well, I’d say my idea worked perfectly.”

Jaskier takes stock of the area around them — there’s snow covering their warm blanket, he and Yennefer are particularly covered with it, but no further than the area they are sitting in. He is not cold, and the wind, when it hits his face, seems more like a caress than the biting sensation he had felt when he came out only minutes ago.

He feels as if a part of him has just woken up, as if he’s greeting an old friend he has never met but has missed all the same.

And the magic, the connection Yennefer had talked so much about, but he hadn’t been able to feel — is now alive and bright in his chest, like a warm fire during winter.

“Can you do that in reverse?” he hears the shout, and turns to see Lambert, a scowl on his face betraying the teasing tone, “We already have snow enough, bard. How about some sun next time?”

He laughs, along with Eskel and Ciri, and gets up to trudge inside the keep once more.

Once he’s at the top of the steps, he realizes Geralt isn’t there anymore.

It hurts more than it should, but he swallows it all down, and nods in thanks when Vesemir tells him a gruff “Well done.”

He pretends his heart doesn’t break a little that the man he was singing about doesn’t even stay to hear it to the end.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look - Geralt is messed up. So are all the witchers, but his mess stands out a little more because he has had over a century of practice. Don't hate him, poor guy (never mind that I only started this story because I wanted Geralt to suffer. Oh well.)
> 
> On another note, stay safe, guys. The world feels very strange right now, and very dangerous on top of that. I hope this story took your minds off the chaos for a bit, and made you happy, no matter where you are. Stay safe, stay home - and if you are out protesting, gloves, mask, goggles and plenty of water, folks. Be as safe as you can.
> 
> After that small dose of reality, let's go back to the pain of made-up people, at least there are dragons here.

Geralt is distracted at training that morning, to the point where even Ciri has managed to get him unguarded.

Twice.

When they send the girl in so they can train by themselves, he takes a small break, watching Eskel and Lambert sparring as he drinks some water and tries to find his center again, but it is _difficult_.

Ten days. Ten days has Jaskier been in the keep, and he barely sees the bard at all. When he isn’t training with Yennefer, and sometimes Ciri, he’s out pretending to help Lambert with repairs, or he’s ensconced in his own room, the light sounds of the lute and his voice coming out the door.

Jaskier asked for space, and Geralt is trying to give it to him — but the song… The song caught him by surprise.

He is aware of the fact that learning a new skill, specially of the magical kind, is a very disturbing process. He remembers having trouble grasping at the concept of Signs, how long it took him to master it, how much Vesemir had pushed him, and he was hoping Jaskier would remember he could help him. That Geralt himself had gone through something like this once, and he could offer some assistance. But that idea went out the window with Yennefer taking the reigns, and teaching the bard to channel his magic through music, which seemed so… _right_.

He could feel the song in his bones, echoing still, even now. All night he had lied awake on his bed, Jaskier’s voice _haunting_ him like a damn Penitent, insistent and almost impossible to get rid of.

What really gets to him is that it’s _true_. He made it so. Jaskier has been by his side for _decades_ and he pushed him away, and now he _is_ alone. Alone to make his way into Ciri’s life, and in finding a way to keep her safe and protected. Alone to understand life on the road on his own again after so long with a constant companion who, even though he came and went like the seasons, was always a certainty.

Geralt destroyed that because he was an absolute idiot, and he is fully aware he doesn’t deserve Jaskier’s forgiveness.

After hearing that song, he doesn’t even know if he would ever have it, at any rate.

“Come now, pretty boy,” Lambert’s voice comes from too close — he hasn’t even noticed the other man approaching, “Your turn to bow to the master.”

Eskel laughs quietly, settling in to watch the fight — it’s usually a quick one, he is older and more experienced than Lambert. The other witcher’s only advantage is that he is awfully quick, but he usually gets cocky if Geralt lets him get away with a few strikes, and then it’s easy pickings.

But not today.

Today, Lambert is dancing around him, clearly noticing he is not at his best. When Geralt doesn’t attack after the few first minutes, Lambert strikes him quickly and efficiently a few times — he parries, but slower than normal.

It’s so clear that Lambert is having fun toying with him that Geralt almost wishes he could just punch the other witcher, but that would be wrong. Lambert, as annoying as he is, is his brother, and Geralt won’t hurt him outside their training.

“So, when they put in all those extra mutations in you, were there any donkey mutagens too? That’d be the only explanation for how much of an ass you are,” Lambert taunts him as he parries Geralt’s lunge easily, side-stepping him and hitting him on the back in the same move.

Geralt turns, taking a step back, trying to get his mind in the fight.

“That was weak,” he replies, and sees Lambert’s smug smile before he lunges again, going for Geralt’s knee.

“Yeah, well, so are you, _White Wolf_.”

And that does it.

Geralt throws the sword to the side and jumps onto Lambert, who manages to step away for a second, but goes down the next, when Geralt catches him by the knee. They have an ugly scuffle on the ground, no finesse or precision on the attacks, something that wouldn’t be out of place on the floor of a tavern after too many drinks — and it’s a testimony to how tired Geralt is that Lambert gets the best of him pinning him down with one of his knees on Geralt’s chest.

He could break free, but he would hurt Lambert to do so, and he doesn’t want to go that far.

Not yet, at least.

“Why are you angry?” Geralt is almost surprised when it’s not Lambert asking, but Eskel.

He lets himself fall back on the dirt covered ground. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised. Usually, when Lambert is being that much of an asshole, he could count on Eskel to call him on it. For him to not have done it, there had to be a reason.

“I’m not angry.”

“Yeah, you are. Why are you angry?” Eskel insists.

“Have you talked to Jaskier yet?” Lambert asks when he doesn’t reply to Eskel’s question, and he bares his teeth at the man who is practically sitting on him. _Jaskier_ , is it now?

“Why don’t you ask _him_ , since you’re such good friends?” he shoots back, and Lambert, the asshole, _smirks_ at Eskel.

“And that’s more coin you owe me.”

Geralt turns to glare at Eskel, who can only shrug not looking the least apologetic.

“I didn’t believe it when Lambert said you’d be jealous, because I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

“Ass mutagens, I’m telling you,” Lambert says, getting up and finally offering Geralt a hand up too. When they are both standing, he doesn’t let go of Geralt’s arm, but instead pulls him close, staring the taller man down, “You do realize I don’t want to fuck him, right?”

“What the fuck, Lambert?”

“Just telling you, I don’t want to step on your toes here. I’m being friendly, because he is a nice guy. Also, it’s nice to be around someone who doesn’t fear what I am or judge me based on what I do for a living. Jaskier is a good person,” he finishes, apparently embarrassed by complimenting someone, even if they can’t hear him.

“I know,” Geralt says through gritted teeth.

He fucking _knows_ Jaskier is a good person.

Who else would follow a disaster like him around, and offer him their friendship?

“So did you? Talk to him?” Eskel prods again, and Geralt can see that he’s not leaving this conversation until he answers, so he decides to take the path of least resistance and just nods.

“I tried. He… he said he needs some space. To figure things out.”

Eskel nods quietly, and that seems to be good enough for him.

Lambert is still staring at Geralt, though.

“I just want to make it clear that I have no intention of fucking him, Geralt. I swear. I wouldn’t be that much of an asshole.”

Geralt finally has had enough, and dislodges Lambert’s hand from his shoulder when the man puts it there.

“It wouldn’t be any of my business if you did,” he tells them, and stalks towards the keep, done with the whole conversation.

“I’m starting to get your donkey mutagens theory, you know?” he can hear Eskel saying, and at Lambert’s loud laugh in answer, he shuts the door behind him.

Damn his brothers.

* * *

Jaskier isn’t surprised when Yennefer corners him the very next morning, even before they can meet for their training, as they had been doing for the past week.

No matter what else the sorceress might be, patient is not one of her many attributes.

“I’ve been thinking we should try to undo the wish this morning.”

The bard stares at her for a few seconds, and turns to head into the kitchens — he is _not_ having this discussion with no food in his stomach. Or at least the prospect of it.

“Yennefer, I barely managed to control a few winds yesterday. I think it is a fair assumption for me to make that I won’t be able to snap a wish out of existence after _one_ successful session of training. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

They trade greetings with Eskel and Vesemir, who are already in the room, and set about eating — or Jaskier sets about eating, and Yennefer sets about trying to glare him into submission.

Her glares _are_ quite impressive, but he has the immunity he built for twenty years traveling with a witcher. Her glare is effective, but not _that_ effective.

“We have a deal, bard,” she reminds him, her voice low, and Jaskier can only roll his eyes at her.

“Yes, we do. And I did manage to barely start to be _aware_ of the connection to this… _magic_ thing. Yesterday. And now you’re asking me to do something we don’t even know if it’s possible.”

“And we still won’t know until we try, will we?”

“I just think it’s still too risky,” he is saying when Geralt gets to the kitchen. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then look away, pretending there was no delay in their interaction.

“Jaskier saying something is _too_ risky is a bad sign,” the newcomer says, and the bard turns to glare at him for a bit.

They’ve been doing well so far on the whole not interacting thing. Geralt has no right to go and start to ruin that by having his rather stunted sense of humor come and make an appearance.

“Too risky or not, it is my decision whether to attempt it, isn’t it?” Yennefer says, staring at Jaskier unwaveringly.

“What is it you want the bard to try?” Vesemir questions her and the situation turns awkward just like that.

“I want Jaskier to take back a wish that was made to a djinn, many years ago. Its magic is still in effect, I can sense it, and I’d like it _gone_ ,” Yennefer answers Vesemir, but her eyes are fixed on Geralt who seems to have stopped breathing.

“Hum…” Vesemir seems to be considering the idea, a hand running over his beard as he thinks, “I assume it would be possible. The same kind of spirit, and no physical manifestation of the spell, I’m assuming?”

“None,” Yennefer tells him, finally looking away from Geralt.

“I’d say get him used to the feel of the magic first, make him see how it works and how it is to be undone, but there should be no harm in starting that.”

Yennefer turns to Jaskier then, an eyebrow raised as if mocking him for his lack of cooperation.

“I’ll wait for you in the library,” she tells him as she leaves, as if they haven’t been meeting in there for the last seven days.

“You shouldn’t do it,” Geralt tells him as soon as Yennefer is out of earshot, and Jaskier turns to him, eyes sparkling in anger.

“Yes, _I should_ ,” he shoots back, almost bumping into Lambert who is coming into the kitchen as he gets up, “She wants her freedom back, Geralt. You have no right to decide what we should do or not.”

“There’s no _we_ , Jaskier! That is Yennefer trying to always get the upper hand, and you getting caught in the crossfire!”

“You are _unbelievable_!” Jaskier hisses, not wishing to yell, but no longer able to speak normally, and leaving without waiting for a response.

The _nerve_ of that witcher!

Just for that, he would start attempting to unmake that wish right _now_.

* * *

“I only caught the end of that,” Lambert starts as soon as Jaskier has disappeared down the hall, his angry steps echoing through the stone walls, “but, honestly, pretty boy, how stupid _are_ you?”

Geralt can only growl a little at him, and then stare angrily at his plate.

“I’m not one to agree with Lambert, but right now, _I agree with Lambert_ ,” Eskel adds, and when Geralt looks at him, the man has an incredulous expression on his face, “If the wish she wants gone is the one you made, why don’t you want Jaskier to undo it? Don’t you want to see if whatever you and the witch have is real? Don’t you want to be free to leave her if you want?”

“Not at the cost of Jaskier’s safety,” he tells them through gritted teeth, “The last time he messed with djinn magic, it almost killed him. What if he tries to do something and _does die_?”

“And again, I ask you,” Lambert continues, chewing on a piece of sausage, “how stupid _are_ you? Because it didn’t sound like you were worried about the bard, Geralt. It sounded like you wanted the witch to still be bound to you.”

He keeps stubbornly silent at that, and eats angrily, staring at his own plate until he hears Vesemir sighing.

“They are right, you know. That _is_ what it sounded like.”

Geralt gives up on eating, and leaves the kitchen.

Why is this so fucking _hard_? It’s like both Jaskier _and_ Yennefer keep understanding everything he tries to say the wrong way. He knows he doesn’t help much, but he _is_ trying.

Running a hand over his face, he goes to Jaskier’s room — the man is precious about hygiene when not camping in the middle of the woods, and wouldn’t go to meet Yennefer without going by his bedroom to clean himself up after eating. Knocking on the door, he waits impatiently and breathing deeply.

He can explain this without causing further damage to the bard, or himself, in the process.

When the door opens, Jaskier stares at him, arms crossed, looking extremely unimpressed.

“I don’t want this bond with Yennefer,” he starts, taking from what the others had told him that _that_ was the part Jaskier must have taken issue with, “It was a rash decision, and I don’t regret saving her life, but I do regret this twisted thing we seem to have.”

“Then what is the problem?” Jaskier prods, and Geralt lets out a deep exhale, praying for patience.

“You,” he says simply, and immediately knows he fucked up again when Jaskier’s eyes show hurt and then anger.

“Oh, well, I am sorry if I offend you with my—”

“You don’t _offend_ me, Jaskier! Damn it! The last time you got caught up in djinn’s magic, you almost died! I don’t value my freedom, or Yennefer’s wishes, above your safety, your life! Why is it that you always expect me to not care about you at all?” he ends up asking out of sheer frustration, because, yes, while he may have been harsh and cruel on top of that mountain, it’s not like he spent the whole time they spent together torturing the bard — far from it.

“So you were… worried about me?”

Geralt doesn’t deign that with a verbal answer, and only stares at Jaskier a moment longer as the bard seems to process this.

“And you care about me,” he continues, and, though sighing exasperatedly first, Geralt nods.

“I do. I didn’t go through all the trouble of keeping you alive for twenty years just to have you dying in my home to solve a problem _I_ created.”

“I—” the man seems to have lost his words, and Geralt raises an eyebrow at him, because it’s rare that he sees Jaskier speechless, “I’ll be careful. For my sake, and Yennefer’s. I promise.”

Knowing a losing battle when he sees one, Geralt nods, guessing that this promise is as good as he is going to get right now.

“Good,” he tells the bard, and turns to leave.

“I didn’t use to, you know,” Jaskier calls when Geralt is a few steps from the door, and he stops but doesn’t turn around, “To think you didn’t care for me. I didn’t use to. But I thought— I thought I had interpreted things wrong.”

“You didn’t,” he says, and goes on his way to wake Ciri.

He needs some training to calm himself down.

* * *

“Are you and Yennefer a couple?” Ciri asks him when they take a break, and Geralt almost spits the drink of water he has just taken.

Are he and Yennefer a couple?

Well, no.

They fuck. Or they used to, and it was amazing, and she _is_ important to him, djinn wish or not, but he doesn’t think that’s quite what Ciri is asking him. It also doesn’t seem the kind of answer one gives to a child under their care.

“No.”

“But you were?” she insists, and Geralt looks out into the training ground, where Lambert is chuckling as he spars with Eskel, and even Vesemir looks amused.

“Not really. It’s very… complicated.”

“Complicated because you like Jaskier?”

“Jaskier is my friend,” he would very likely have to tell _him_ that at some point, but it’s easier to tell Ciri for some reason.

“And you wish he was more?” Those big, brilliant eyes staring at him in open curiosity are the only thing stopping him from snapping at her, and by the tiniest bit of smugness coming from her, he knows _she knows it_.

He’s saved from answering when Vesemir calls on her to come and try to take Eskel down in combat, but his reprieve doesn’t last long when Lambert comes over and takes her seat beside him.

“You know, I have a friend, from the Cat School, his name is Aiden. We’ve been doing some jobs together for a while now,” the other witcher starts, and Geralt hums in response.

“Cats are dangerous,” he ends up saying, and hears the small scoff coming from Lambert.

“That is half the fun. But you know, I miss him when I’m here, or when we go our separate ways. We leave some notes so we can find each other again, and I’m always glad to see him,” Geralt keeps quiet, not quite knowing where Lambert is going with this. He knows his brother has friends from other schools, and he also knows Lambert would fuck anything that gave him half a chance. None of this is news to him.

“This life we lead, the way we were made, it gets lonely. It gets… pointless. And sometimes — rarely, but sometimes — we find some people that make this whole thing easier, and if we’re lucky, they won’t be witchers, because that complicates things in a different way. Because these witchers, well, they are made from the same stuff we are. They think they have to be empty and cold too. But what I see in that bard, in that child — hell, even in the witch — is not cold or empty. If you don’t care for this thing you have at your fingertips, you might end up losing a part of it, and you won’t get another chance like this again.”

Geralt keeps his silence, and, eventually, Lambert clasps him on the shoulder and leaves to train some more.

He knows he should follow, bit his mind is elsewhere again — it’s in that room, up that tower, where two of the most important people in his life are risking their own hides to undo a mistake he made.

The thing about being a witcher is that time is a strange concept, sometimes. Almost like he hadn’t really noticed that Jaskier _should_ look older, or how the other man would complain about Geralt being away for a long time. When he would go by a small village and recognize some old woman’s eyes as the child he once saved from some creature — but even with this tenuous grasp of the passage of time, he had always known, deep down, that Jaskier was mortal. He was human, and he was going to die, sooner or later, be it from following Geralt around, from his own philandering, or because of time itself.

He would die, and if Geralt admitted that he cared, if Geralt had to sit and _watch_ as that happened, well, he hadn’t been sure he was strong enough. He hadn’t _wanted_ to be strong enough. But he also hadn’t wanted to allow Jaskier to make himself a place in his heart because when he inevitably left, there would be no filling the hole he’d leave behind again. Witcher’s hearts aren’t just cold as stone, they are just as brittle — it would shatter him from inside out, and he couldn’t afford it. So from very early on in their relationship, Geralt had always kept up a wall, keeping the worst of the proximity away. Never complementing, and never praising, and never being gentle — hell, not even _acknowledging_ their friendship.

But now things are different.

Now he knows that, if anything, Jaskier will outlive _him_ , and that prospect fills him with deep relief. It’s unfair, maybe, unjust, but truth is that now that he knows he won’t lose Jaskier to time, maybe he can do what Lambert is saying, and he can afford to want and to have all of it.

Without being afraid to lose it, without being afraid that losing someone would make him weak.

Things have truly changed — and for once, he couldn’t be more glad for it.

* * *

“What if I fuck up and hurt you?” Jaskier asks, his hands on either side of Yennefer’s head, as they sit facing each other on the floor, a close mimicry from her time learning to read thoughts in Aretuza.

“Why, Jaskier, I didn’t know you cared that much,” she replies with a mocking sweetness that makes the bard rolls his eyes.

“I don’t particularly _care_ , but if I do hurt you, your first reaction would be to hurt me back, and I have no wish to make that happen.”

There is something nervous and agitated about him, and Yennefer would find it endearing if it wasn’t so annoying as it is.

“I won’t hurt you unless you hurt me on purpose. I would very much like to ask you not to kill me, however, as I do appreciate being alive.”

“Could I _do_ that?” Jaskier’s response is high-pitched and panicked, and his hands are gone from her face, making her sigh deeply, and close her eyes in annoyance.

“No, Jaskier, you can’t kill me — it was a joke. Now try to do as I instructed, focus on the magic you started to feel, tune in on its vibrancy, on its tone,” she instructs, picking both of his hands and setting them on either side of her head again, closing her eyes when she sees him doing the same, “Find it in you, and follow it into my own magic, and try to _see_ the bond the wish made. That’s all I’m asking. There’s no way you can hurt me by doing _that._ ”

“All right. I can find it. I can find it,” the bard repeats, and Yennefer contains her snort because it will make him shift his focus — which is, at the best of times, limited — from his task again.

Little by little, she can feel his own magic weaving its way into hers, and it is one of the strangest things she has ever felt.

Chaos is chaos — whether it’s controlling a raging fire or making a small rock float, the amount of it differs, but its feeling is the same. There is the _wrongness_ one can feel in it, something disgusting and sickening at its absence, but be it hers or Tissaia’s or any trained magic user she’s encountered, it all… _tastes_ , for the lack of a better word, the same.

She is aware by now that Ciri’s magic isn’t quite like hers. Ciri is of the Elder Blood, and while there are some similarities — of which she takes advantage to teach the child some control — and many differences, it’s still chaos — nothing but another facet of the same thing.

Jaskier’s magic, however, feels _cold_.

Not in an unnerving way, it isn’t malicious by any means, but it’s not unlike a cool breeze on a hot summer day, or the splash of water in a clean riverbank. If she could give it a color, her own magic would be bright, fiery red, while his would be soothing blue, similar to the color of the mutagen Vesemir had found in his blood. Bright, and fresh, soothing its way into her mind in such a way that she almost welcomes it when he is following the thread she’s trying to build to where she can sense the djinn’s bond.

It is not the same, she thinks — there’s something violent in the bond she’s had for years now, without being aware of it. If affected by her own nature, or because of the anger coming from the creature who put it there, it’s not strange that it went so long without being detected, because the fury she feels is much the same. A creature trapped, doing the bidding of others, having lost their own control. Maybe what she feels for Geralt is real, but maybe it is only her own vain wish to turn this bond into something she would have wanted so she wouldn’t see this magic tainting her thoughts and mind and soul.

“This is… _so odd_ ,” Jaskier whispers, a reverent tremble in his voice, and she smiles at that, knowing he can’t see her anyway, “It’s a lot like following a trail in the middle of a forest fire, you know?” he continues, and she has to agree that it would make sense — if she can feel the cold in his magic, he can probably sense the fire in hers and find it just as disconcerting.

“Yennefer, I think I see it… Sense it. I don’t know, I’m… _aware_ of it.”

“The wording does not matter, bard,” she tells him, because she, too, can see how his magic is close enough to touch the bond.

“What do I do now?”

Well, that is a good question, isn’t it?

“To undo someone else’s magic, first, one should try and feel how the magic works — not unlike a knot. Find a point where you can see it is connecting to my own will, my own magic, and, carefully, try to find your way into unraveling it. There is no formula to accomplish this, every spell, every kind of magic, is unique enough that there isn’t a rule,” she keeps talking because she knows by now that sound calm the bard more than silence. Unlike most people, silence brings Jaskier no peace.

“I believe…” he starts very slowly, “I see it. Should I… Should I do something?” his voice trembles the smallest bit, and Yennefer can feel him losing his grasp onto their connection.

“Push against it. Try to break it,” she tells him harshly, because she is _done_ with this, and she is quite sure Jaskier’s magic won’t harm her.

There is no malicious intent whatsoever in it.

“Yen…”

“Just _do_ it, Jaskier!”

And he does it.

* * *

The flash of bright white light brings all the witchers and Ciri to the library.

In it, there isn’t a single book on any shelf anymore — everything is scattered around the two figures who are still on the floor when they arrive. Yennefer has a hand over her eyes, and Jaskier is staring around him in open-mouthed _awe_.

“Guess that is one more thing we know my magic can do,” he is saying, and while Geralt is still trying to gauge the damage, he hears Ciri’s nervous giggle.

When he turns to stare at the girl, she can’t help but laugh some more.

“I’m just relieved I’m not the only one causing damage anymore,” she tells him in between giggles.

“Are you two all right?” Geralt asks the two people on the floor, and they only now seem to notice the convergence of witchers at their door.

“We are perfectly fine,” Yennefer tells him primly, offering Jaskier a hand up, but Geralt is faster, and already has the bard up and facing him in.

“This is _exactly_ what I was talking about this morning. What if you had gotten hurt?”

He knows they are fine, he can _see_ that — but the damn light had been so bright it looked like lightening, despite not making a sound.

“We’re fine, Geralt,” Jaskier tells him, his eyes wide and anxious, “We miscalculated a little, but no harm was done, see?” he asks, spreading his arms, and wincing a little, “Well, maybe _some_ harm, but mostly from being thrown on my behind a few meters, not from the magic itself.”

Geralt turns a glare at Yennefer, and the witch has the gall to roll her eyes at him.

“Oh, quit you mother-henning, witcher, I didn’t break your bard, he is fine.”

“What the hell were you two even _trying_ to do?” Lambert asks then, as Geralt doesn’t know how to answer to Yennefer’s comment.

 _His_ bard. He does like the sound of that.

“Break the bond the djinn created. We thought—” at this, Jaskier turns to look at her with an eyebrow raised, and Yennefer concedes with a small nod, “ _I_ thought it wouldn’t harm us any to just… pull. I do admit, I may have miscalculated.”

“ _May_ have?” Eskel repeats, “Our library looks like it was hit by a tornado!” Despite the words, he doesn’t seem very sad about it — if anything, he looks _delighted_.

“Oh, do you think I could—” Jaskier starts, and is interrupted by Geralt’s quite loud _No_ , and Ciri’s very animated _Yes_ coming at once, “Maybe not inside, then,” he compromises, and Geralt feels the urge to throw the man over his shoulder and lock him in a tower.

Maybe he can get Borch to come and take residence, and then Jaskier would be less at risk.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s had such thoughts, but it _is_ the first time he allows himself to have them, and not suppress it in the same second.

“At any rate,” Yennefer says grandly, “We now know djinn magic can’t be undone by pulling at it, so we’ll try something else.”

“Did you _really_ need to try _pulling_ to know it wouldn’t work, though?” Lambert asks her, and she doesn’t deign him with a response, leaving them to their talk.

“Do you have any idea how hurt you could have been?” he asks Jaskier quietly, and feels more than sees the others leaving them to talk.

“It was just a burst of magic, Geralt. No harm done, to me _or_ Yennefer.”

“What if a shelf had fallen on you? Or you had cracked your head against a wall? Or the explosion was strong enough to throw you out the window, what then?”

“But it didn’t,” Jaskier says firmly, but not unkindly, “It didn’t, and I’m fine. And now I’ve learned not to listen to Yennefer just because she makes it sound as if she knows everything, because she most definitely _doesn’t_ ,” the bard finishes, rubbing his buttocks distractedly, but Geralt doesn’t really let his hands fall from the other man’s shoulders for a moment longer, squeezing them gently, and Jaskier raises his head to look at him again.

“I’ve only just got used to the idea that I may not lose you. That I don’t have to keep you at a distance because it would be that much harder if I let myself believe I could… _care_ for you. Please, don’t make me regret it by finding your way into danger.”

Knowing he is pushing it, but not caring right then, he leans his forehead against Jaskier’s for a moment, before leaving in a hurry lest he loses control and crosses a line he knows Jaskier is not yet ready to cross.

* * *

Jaskier is quite… bemused.

Yes. _Bemused_ is the expression he is going to use, because anything else feels too heavy, and he doesn’t want to deal with any of it right now.

So he does what he does best when he doesn’t want to dwell on something, and pretends everything is fine — there’s no reason for him to keep thinking about what Geralt told him, or how it sounded like the witcher had kept him at arm’s length before because he was _mortal_. No reason at all.

So he locks that line of thought right up to be analyzed at a later date and hopefully with copious amounts of alcohol, and heads to the kitchens for food — performing magical feats leaves one practically starving, who knew?

As more people come in, he decides to ignore them all in favor of shoveling as much food as he can in his mouth without actually choking.

“Say, bard, what are the chances of you giving us some more sun, now that you can make it rain, snow, _and_ strike lightening indoors?” Lambert asks in a teasing tone, halfway through lunch, and for the first time Jaskier realizes people were talking around him, and he hadn’t noticed.

After the small incident that morning, something happened to his magic, that much he is certain — it feels almost _alive_ now, whereas before it was dormant, a comforting presence in the back of his mind. Now, he feels as if with a little intent he could actually bring the winds back, or cause some rain.

As he focuses on banishing the heavy clouds, filled with ice and snow, he realizes that he _couldn’t —_ not necessarily by lack of power, but because even the _thought_ of doing so feels wholly unnatural.

“I can’t,” he tells Lambert, and something in his tone must be off, because he is suddenly the focus of five very worried people around the table, “I mean, maybe I could, if I tried really hard, but it feels… wrong. It’s not… There isn’t supposed to be sun here now. It’d be… _wrong_ ,” he finishes lamely, and Yennefer hums on his side, where she had taken a seat when she came in minutes earlier.

“You magic is attuned to nature, to the elements and the cycle they’re bound to — it makes sense that you wouldn’t try and disrupt the natural flow of it. You may be able to summon rain, or make it snow, but we are already in the cold, and it is already winter — it’s not much of a change. But to bring sun here now, it would be a perversion of the natural laws — your very nature would disagree with it.”

“Not to mention the consequences of such a thing — bringing heat to this part of the continent at this time of the year would very likely cause flooding in the neighboring areas, fish would over bound or disappear in turns, animals who are hibernating would drown because of the unnatural water level. It would be chaos,” Vesemir says, and Jaskier’s eyes go even wider as he listens.

“No doing anything unnatural. I promise,” he tells the man seriously, and Vesemir merely nods at him, clearly expecting his warning to be heeded without further ado, which it would, if Jaskier had anything to say about it.

“It’s why not many mages even try to grasp this branch of magic, even if they had the talent,” Yennefer says, as if lecturing, “Some druids dab in it, but nothing to the extent you’ll be able to if you keep at it, but it’s not very… useful, for lack of a better word. People tend to think of magic in terms of what it gains them, and you can’t gain much by being able to control the weather but just to its natural state. What use is it to be able to bring down rain when it’s already the rainy season?”

“Tell that to the people living through a drought when there should be rain, and let’s see if they still think like that when someone is able to get them wet soil and green plants again,” Geralt tells her, almost as if defending Jaskier’s branch of talent, and the bard has to stuff some more food in his mouth to stop from smiling at the witcher.

It’s damn hard too.

“At any rate, messing with the elements in terms of changing the weather for a long period is no easy feat and shouldn’t be taken lightly, but controlling small amounts of it shouldn’t influence it enough for your nature to object. Like with the wind and rain and snow you already did.”

“Guess I’ll have to… explore some more. Within reason, of course,” he says, mostly glancing at Vesemir, “And possibly outdoors as well.”

“At least not in the library,” the old witcher mutters, and Ciri giggles in response.

After their meal is consumed, and the place is mostly clear of dirty plates and leftovers, Jaskier goes to the space where Ciri and Yennefer are training to talk to the sorceress — Ciri went to get cleaned up, and he knows Yennefer will be alone right now.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, and Yennefer looks at him with worry in her features.

“That is not usual for you. Are you feeling ill?”

“You are so funny, Yennefer. Why, you could get a job at any court as their jester, surely,” he replies dryly, and keeps going before she can answer, “I felt the connection today. I think I could undo it, but not by… force. It is a wish, not a curse, it can’t be snapped out. I think it should be… convinced.”

“Convinced?” she repeats, staring at him as if he is insane or stupid — or probably a combination of both.

“Yes. I can’t take something that is not mine to begin with and exterminate it without a violent reaction. I felt it would go wrong before I even tried it, and I think it’s because, well, as much as that djinn tried to kill me, its magic isn’t inherently violent. The djinn twists wishes into nightmares as revenge for being trapped — in essence what Geralt’s wish does is trap you both, certainly it can feel some sympathy for your situation.”

“Jaskier, we are talking about a small piece of magic. Powerful, yes, but not a sentient being.”

He shrugs then, with a tired sigh.

“Who are we to say it isn’t sentient, Yen? Who are we to tell it it has to disappear because we want it to, when it was put there with the intent to save your life? I’m not saying we don’t try a different approach if this doesn’t work, but we tried your way once, and it got us nowhere. Well, in truth, it got us thrown on our asses. If this doesn’t work, we’ll try your way once more.”

“And what is your way, bard?”

Jaskier grins at her, big and genuine.

“Why, my dear lady, we sing to it.”

* * *

The next two days go by in a flurry of activity, because as soon as Jaskier gets permission from Yennefer to execute his plan, it’s as if the gates of his creativity have been opened, and the song pours out of him.

When he has the finished piece, he just _knows_ it will work. He can feel it building in his bones, in his very soul, the same way his White Wolf song did, and he knows this is what he needed to unmake that wish, and to free both Yennefer and Geralt from the magic keeping them together.

He knows Yennefer wants to be free more than almost anything else. He also knows that she and Geralt already _are_ bound together more tightly than this simple wish could ever do, through Cirilla and their own bonds to the princess — the thing Yennefer wanted most in the world was to have a child, and by allowing her into Ciri’s life, as a mentor and, so far, the _only_ female figure in her life, Geralt might as well have given her a daughter himself.

Geralt, on the other hand, is a little harder to read.

He has been behaving strangely the past few days — more calm, more playful, smiling at Ciri, and joking with Jaskier, and it’s a little disconcerting, because the thing is that, as much as Jaskier _loves_ adventure, he has had enough of it for at least a few months with the almost dying and then finding out he is some sort of djinn’s cousin.

He doesn’t want any more surprises, and he doesn’t need any more excitement right now — he wants certainty. At least _one_ certainty, to carry him through the rest of the winter without falling apart once more.

Because right now, he can say that the draw between Yennefer and Geralt is just the wish bringing them together, and twisting it into something the both of them can live with — sex and power. But should he take that wish away, and the two of them find out they _still_ love each other, that they are _still_ as drawn together as before? He isn’t sure he can quite survive that.

He almost died of a broken heart once — he has no wish to do it again.

So, before telling Yennefer that he has the song, he seeks out Geralt of his own volition for the first time since he arrived at the keep — everyone has already gone to bed, but he knows Ciri is probably the only one who is sleeping, so he feels he won’t be interrupting anything when he knocks on Geralt’s door. Unsurprising, the man answers it still in his day clothes, and gestures him inside — there are two chairs in front of the fire, one of them covered in books, which Geralt puts aside so Jaskier can sit as well.

The witcher doesn’t speak, which is definitely not surprising, but neither does Jaskier, because he isn’t sure how to start this.

“Did Yen tell you about what I want to do to solve the wish thing?” he ends up asking for lack of anything better to say, and Geralt shakes his head.

“Ciri did. Something about a song?”

Jaskier nods at him, swallowing dry.

“I finished it. It’s done, and I’m almost certain that it’ll work.”

“… Good. That is… good,” the witcher says, and then goes quiet again.

Jaskier wishes he had something to drink so things wouldn’t be as awkward, but alas, he hadn’t planned this far ahead.

“I— What do you _feel_ for her, Geralt? Really? I was there for most of your… relationship, for lack of a better word, but—”

“I don’t know,” the man answers him with no delay, staring into his eyes with an honesty and openness that he seldom sees from the witcher, “I do know that I feel… drawn to her. That she is important to me, and now, to Ciri. I know that I don’t regret saving her life, but this… feeling I have for her, this… thing I thought might be— more? I don’t know if it’s real. In truth, I’m almost certain it isn’t.”

“How do you know?” Jaskier asks him, and Geralt looks to the fire for a moment before turning back to him.

“Because I think I have something to compare it to now. And it’s not the same.”

His voice is just as rumbly as always, tone the same as it always is. He could just as well be describing the best way to behead a Rotfiend and not get splattered in poison for all that the tone of his voice tells of emotion, but his eyes are alight with the glow of the fire, and unwavering staring into Jaskier’s, as if he can see into the bard’s very soul.

It’s almost too much.

Almost, but not quite — because Jaskier is easy with his emotions, he never had any problem showing them to the world ever since he figured he couldn’t actually stop himself from feeling. It may get him into trouble, but just as many times it has brought him joy and happiness, and you can’t really have one without the other.

So he isn’t afraid to say what’s in his heart right now, because he almost died for this man, and he knows right now he would be ready to do it again if he had to. Because he is a fool, maybe, or just because he has such strength he doesn’t think a feeling as pure and joyous as this can destroy him.

“I love you,” he tells Geralt simply, not looking away or hiding behind a joke and a smile, a crude comment and a wink this time. Not this time, “I know it in my soul that I do. I chose to take you under my protection, unknowingly, maybe, but I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, even if I knew what the consequences would be. I love you, and because I do, I want to ask you something.”

Geralt only nods at him, the movement almost imperceptible.

“I am not a very good person sometimes. I like to believe I’m fair, but I don’t actually think I can live in misery, and pretend everything is fine — not again. Not after all the trouble that doing that has caused me. So tomorrow, when I break that spell, when you and Yennefer are free of that wish, I ask you that, if you love her — if you truly love her, like I know you think you do, I ask you that you let me go. I know I can’t leave until winter’s end, but I also know this keep is large enough for us not to have to cross paths, and I ask you to respect my wishes. At least for some time. Until I can let _you_ go as well. Can you promise me that?”

“Jaskier, I—”

“I told you I needed time to give you my forgiveness, Geralt, and now you have it. I don’t hold it against you, I can see you _are_ trying, and I understand why you tried to keep me away. I forgive you. But I’m asking you now, if you were ever my friend at all, that you promise me.”

“I promise,” the witcher tells him quietly, and Jaskier gets up from his chair, pausing briefly to lean over Geralt and press a small kiss to the man’s forehead.

“Good night, Geralt.”

And then he leaves.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! Last chapter! You guys are wonderful - I so picked the right fandom to get back into writing. Thank you for your love and support - stay safe, stay home <3
> 
> The song I used in this chapter can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=823yuWz0lto) . Maybe I cried when I heard it in the game. Maybe I cried again a couple of times when I put it on my playlist. I also tweaked it to fit into its purpose here, but, mostly, same song.

Jaskier can barely sleep that night, so it makes sense for him to be the first one in the kitchen the following morning. He’s not very good with lightening the fires in the enormous fireplace, so mostly he sits, wrapped in a blanket, until Eskel comes in after a few minutes, and looks at him suspiciously.

“Did you sleep at all, or have you been here all night?”

“I just woke up,” he tells the man, watching as he lights the fire with a tiny burst of magic, and smiles at it almost unconsciously, “Maybe one of you could try and teach me that. It sure is useful.”

Eskel straightens form where he was bent over the fire, and looks at him for a few seconds.

“You found a way to do it, didn’t you?”

Jaskier’s answering sigh is apparently answer enough for the witcher, because the man sets a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently once before starting to move around, getting ready to prepare breakfast.

Jaskier knows he should help, but he’s not in peak condition yet — all of his motivation is going into not crumbling into despair, because all night, the only thing he could think of was that they’d be together.

He is so sure of it — Yennefer and Geralt fit in a way that he never could hope to do. Without the shadow of the wish hanging over them, Yennefer would be able to admit to what she feels, and Geralt wouldn’t doubt his own feelings anymore, and Jaskier would— well, he would be alone. Probably for the first time since he met Geralt, and stayed conscious, he would be on his own, because he couldn’t even bear the thought of hanging around to see the two of them in love without shadow of doubt weighing them down.

“You know,” Eskel startles him out of his misery, talking without actually looking at him, which somehow makes it easier to hear it, “Geralt was always afraid of you. Not that he’d say that out loud, not only because we would have mocked him endlessly, but also because I don’t think he’d ever admit it to even himself, how scared you always made him. Every winter he came home after meeting you was a winter we heard stories about his hunts _with_ you. The jobs he took on his own were fine, but the ones he actually detailed were the ones you were there to witness, and your part in it was always mentioned. He was always, _always_ afraid you would leave him. We could all tell just by the way he avoided saying you were his friend, or tried not to mention how you helped, and even pretended he hated your singing. Our lives are shit, most of the time — sure, there’s some reprieve at times, but mostly, it’s taking down monsters, getting glared at, spat on, and getting paid less than what we are owed. That’s it, that’s the life. But you,” the witcher finally turns, leaning against a counter and crossing his arms over his chest, “You came along, and you showed him life could be more. That _he_ could have more. And he was so afraid of what would become of him after he lost you, that he kept you at a distance. Maybe whatever happened between you and him before you came here was his very misguided attempt at trying to stay safe, because he could foresee that if losing the witch hurt, losing _you_ would destroy him.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t know if it’s true — sure, it is one way to look at it, and from Geralt’s words the last few days, he could almost believe it. But also, Eskel hadn’t seen the look in Geralt’s eyes atop that mountain or seen how he and Yennefer were together when their relationship wasn’t as strained as it is now.

“I’ve known Geralt since the beginning. Lambert was one of the last witchers to be made in this keep, but Geralt and I have been brothers for _decades_. I don’t think anyone knows the way he thinks of himself better than I do, because I was there to watch it form. I was there when he was taken for more mutations, and more training. I was there when he lost the color of his hair, and the color of his eyes. I was there when he realized he would never again be able to blend in with the humans. And I was here when he came back, his child surprise and his witch in tow, and he looked _wrecked_ , even though they were safe. I was here when he saw you on that cot, and it was like watching a mountain _crumble_. So have your doubts, if you must; maybe even delay the magic you have to perform, but don’t do it because you think you’ll have nothing left, bard. You’ll have plenty.”

“I wouldn’t—” he starts, clearing his throat when he notices his voice is thick with emotion, and his eyes are filled with tears, “I wouldn’t do that. Yennefer wants this, and so does Geralt. I’m just… afraid.”

Eskel only nods at him, and he finally feels warm enough to get up and help the other man with breakfast for them all.

He decides to do this right after they eat — the sooner he gets this over with, the better.

* * *

Both Geralt and Yennefer stare at him expectantly, as he tries to calm himself down enough to actually start whatever this is — he can’t very well call it a spell, because it isn’t. He can’t _do_ spells, he doesn’t think. He can, however, convince that spark of magic in both Yennefer’s and Geralt’s minds to give way, to leave, if he can convince it that it must go.

It sounds so absolutely insane he can’t barely believe he is going to try. What’s worse, he is almost sure he’ll succeed.

They are, once again, sitting on the front yard, with the warm blanket underneath them. The other four inhabitants of the keep are close by — mostly out of curiosity, Jaskier knows, even though their excuse was that if something was to go wrong, they could help.

But nothing is going to go wrong. He is going to do this, he knows.

“All right, here is the plan — I need you both to keep one hand touching me, just a finger will be enough, and I need you to keep in contact with each other. Do not let go, because I have no idea what could happen then. My plan is to connect both of your… sparks, for lack of a better word, and make them let you go.”

“And for that, you need a song?” Yennefer asks him, even though she _knows_ he is using the song as a crutch.

“Yes, Yennefer, I need a song. I could spend a few more months training on how to focus my magic without it, but I thought you wanted this done sooner rather than later.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and takes off the gloves she’s wearing, taking Geralt’s left hand into her right one with a suffering sigh. Next, she sets her left hand on his shoulder, barely touching the skin of his neck, and Geralt mirrors her position on his other side. All three of them are on their knees, sitting back on their heels, a position he knows is the most comfortable for the witcher because of it being the one he uses for meditation — not that it would matter much, the song isn’t long, and soon they’ll be able to just go.

He brings the lute up, and takes a deep, calming breath, focusing internally first, finding his own center, his own magic to grasp to, and knowing he’ll have to make his way through Yennefer and Geralt at the same time, lest the djinn’s magic latch onto only one of them alone.

“Okay. All right,” he says, stopping the tremble on his fingers, and closing his eyes.

The song starts slow, a lament more than anything else, and his voice seems strangely distant when he starts singing, but even before his first word he can already feel the magic inside his two companions, and he _knows,_ with every bone of his body, that he can do this.

“ _Those scars long have yearned for a tender caress, to bind your fortunes, damn what the stars own. Rend her heart open, then your love profess, a winding, weaving fate to which we all atone,_ ” he can feel Geralt’s part of the binding joining his own magic, entwining with it, and flowing, freely — almost too much all at once, “ _She flees your dream come the morning, her scent - berries tart, lilac sweet. To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy, of violet eyes, glistening as she weeps._ ”

He knows now he has Geralt’s spark flowing into his own magic right now, and continues his song.

“ _The wolf I will follow into the storm to find his heart, its passion displaced by ire ever growing, hardening into stone, amidst the cold to hold him in a heated embrace. She flees his dream come the morning, her scent - berries tart, lilac sweet. To dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy, of violet eyes, glistening as she weeps._ ”

Now that he has sung himself into their path, he can bind the magic flowing through Geralt’s very soul into his own, and, finally, he invites Yennefer’s strange spark to join them, to go back to where it belongs.

“ _I know not if fate would have you live as one, or if by love's blind chance you've been bound. The wish he whispered, when it all began, did it forge a love you might never have found? You flee his dream come the morning, your scent - berries tart, lilac sweet. His dream of raven locks entwisted, stormy, of violet eyes, glistening as you weep._ ”

Now that he has it in his very magic, he keeps playing, letting it go, easing it into freedom, and into returning things to the way they are supposed to be — no binding fates that aren’t meant to be bound, but not breaking whatever could have grown in their souls, because that would cause just as much damage.

Slowly, very slowly, the lament stops, and silence surrounds them.

When Jaskier finally opens his eyes, he realizes that it is raining - a thin, weak thing one could mistake for fog were it not the tiny drops falling incessantly. He looks at Geralt and then Yennefer, whose eyes are still closed, who are glowing faintly, who have let him go as soon as the last note died in the lute, but whose hands are still gripping the other’s and he knows right then that he isn’t needed in here.

Quietly and lightly, he gets to his feet, setting his lute down where he had been, and slowly he makes his way away from them, and away from the keep itself — he won’t try and leave, he knows he can’t. But being so close to them now burns him with something so ugly, so unjust that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he were to bring this twisted, terrible feeling between them now.

He walks, the only direction he cares about is that he is going to the opposite direction of where they are, and he doesn’t look back.

* * *

Yennefer feels as if a whole mountain has left her — free and weightless, her very magic seeming flowing more calmly now that the malicious presence is no longer in her, and she knows with absolute certainty that it is gone.

The wish is gone — whatever forced her and Geralt together is no longer there, no longer manufactured. Whatever they feel from now on, whatever they might become, it will be _real._

When she opens her eyes, hand tightening the grip on Geralt’s for a brief second, she notices Geralt is still under whatever magic Jaskier put on them — a trance, she believes, maybe some kind of enchantment, where all they could hear was his voice and all they could feel was the flow of his very magic coursing through their souls.

The witcher’s eyes finally snap open, and he looks ahead, before anything else — he looks for Jaskier before he looks at her, and she smiles. She knew, deep in her heart, that this would be the outcome.

At last, seeing no bard and only a lute where Jaskier had been before, he turns to her, and she tilts her head slowly, hand squeezing his once more.

“So? No ill effects?”

Geralt shakes his head, taking a deep breath, and tightening his own grip in her hand once.

“Yen,” he calls, looking towards the keep, and back at her again, “You’re still important to me,” he tells her, eyes earnest and open, and she believes him — by the gods, she believes him.

“But you do not love me,” she says, voice kind and gentle as she rarely allows.

“I—” he starts, but again he looks away, at the lute, at the path she can vaguely feel Jaskier has taken.

“Go after him, witcher. And do not hurt him again,” she says, finally letting go of his hand, and getting to her feet.

Her head held high, and her steps certain, she turns his back on him, and walks to where the others are waiting.

They deserve each other, she thinks, and she will be happy for them when the time comes.

When she gets to the others and Ciri voluntarily puts both skinny arms around her, holding on tightly, she smiles again — and that time might come much sooner than she is expecting.

* * *

Jaskier is in no hurry — he has nowhere to go, after all, and no real plan apart from putting some distance between him and whatever is happening on that patch of grass right now.

He did his part, he helped them both, and maybe, some day, perhaps even before winter ends, he’ll be happy that two people who have had as hard a life as those two had have found someone to make them happy.

But right now, all he can feel is sadness, and loneliness — the real deal too, at least, and not that sensation of fading away he had felt when he thought Geralt waned him gone.

It is different, he considers as he walks, because Geralt doesn’t hate him — hell, the man might even be willing to declare their friendship to the world from now on, but he does _not_ feel like congratulating the happy couple just now.

Not yet.

A small part of him acknowledges that he should be trying to find shelter — he should be cold, he should be _freezing_ , wet as he is from the drizzle he caused with his magic, but, strangely, he isn’t. Every droplet on his skin feels like a balm, calming his soul, and connecting him to… something.

He’s never been to a place as isolated as this, as far removed as this before, where woods are allowed to grow with no interference, when the ground gives way to nature in any way it pleases and not by design. Even camping while traveling with Geralt in their most wild, they were only ever a day or two from a town, a village, a road. Nature feels stronger here, and he feels protected in its embrace.

At some point he finds a trail and starts following it, with no purpose in mind. He is doing his best right now to not dwell on anything that could make him miserable, and focusing instead on this strange peace inside him, surrounding him, and he walks. When he finds another ruin, the ghost of what was once one of the towers of Kaer Morhen, he enters it, and decides it’s good enough. He doesn’t think he’ll die of hypothermia in it, he has modicum shelter from wind and rain and snow, and maybe later he’ll try and find some woods to make a fire.

But right then, as he settles down on the hard stone, his mind is soothingly blank — he doesn’t want to think about Yennefer and Geralt, he doesn’t want to think about staying for months still trapped with them in the main part of the keep. He doesn’t want to think about how Geralt and Yennefer and Ciri make for a perfect family and he is just an add-on, a piece they needed to fit into their destinies, and now that he’s done his part, he should probably… go.

The more he tries _not_ to think about that the more he does, and the tranquility which had befallen him during the spell and carried him through his trek leaves him completely. Jaskier finds himself cold, wet, alone and quite possibly lost.

Maybe he’ll die of pneumonia.

Can he even die of pneumonia anymore?

A noise close by makes him freeze in fear, because while he is quite sure he has no human to fear in these lands, no bandits, there _are_ still monsters — Lambert said something about Forktails, and Trolls, and he sure didn’t think of any of it when he decided to get lost in a damn forest like an idiot, to commune with nature, which sounds really nice, but now that whatever trance he had been in is over, all he can do is feel like an idiot for not thinking about his safety.

He became a nature spirit of some sort, he broke the magic of a djinn, and now he is going to be eaten by the second-rate cousin of a dragon, and isn’t that a very disappointing end to his story?

As the sound approaches, his heart start to beat faster, and he tries to think of ways to defend himself, but right then, he can’t — he is _exhausted_ from the spell and from the walking, so he does the second best thing which is to try and hide, hoping that whatever is coming into the room with him doesn’t see anything and leaves.

“Jaskier!” a voice calls — _Geralt’s voice_ calls — and no matter how much he wants to stay away, there isn’t a single instance in his life when Geralt calls him that he won’t answer.

When he moves out of his hiding spot, he sees the witcher, and the relief in those eyes is what makes him move out from the crouch he had been in, and stand, freezing cold and looking, certainly, like a drowned cat.

“Why did you leave?” Geralt asks him, and he has to swallow hard before finding his voice to answer, because Geralt is _here_.

He is _here_ , he came looking for _him,_ and just like that, almost against his will, hope blossoms in his soul.

“I thought… You and Yen—” he begins, and Geralt grunts in clear frustration, fists closed at his sides, and the witcher shakes his head once before crossing the distances between them and grabbing the bard by the arms and pulling him close, one hand running up his back to grasp at the hair at the back of his neck, and other going around his waist, pulling ever so close as to leave no space between them.

Caught off guard, it takes Jaskier a second to react, hands settling on Geralt’s arms in a tight grip — or as tight as he can make it.

“Don’t do this again. Don’t leave without giving me a chance to set you straight first,” the witcher says, and Jaskier can only nod.

“Of course. I will not do it again, no, sir, I’ll guarantee it, no more walking off without being sure you _want_ me to walk off—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts him, voice so very quiet but firm, solid; a command if he ever heard one, “If life could give me one blessing,” at those words, Jaskier’s heart speeds, hurt and fear and anger and shame, all coming together hearing them again, and he tries to pull away, but Geralt’s grip is firm, and Jaskier has no choice but to look into his eyes, and see this nightmare come to life once more, “If life could give me one blessing,” the witcher starts again, “it would be to have you, with me, for the rest of my miserable life.”

And then he is being kissed.

It is not at all what he thought Geralt’s kiss would be like — he has seen him and Yennefer together, has seen Geralt in the throes of passion once or twice when their paths had taken them to the wrong room in brothels, but this… This is a kiss filled with promise, with fear, and care.

A caress at first, nothing more than the delicate press of lips, asking for permission instead of taking him for granted, and eager as he is to see this other side of Geralt, he has waited two decades for this, and he is no blushing maiden or piece of glass.

His hands run up the witcher’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and he opens his mouth, deepening that first caress into a kiss he only breaks because he needs the air.

Not pulling away, Geralt’s mouth finds its way down the side of his neck, licking the drops of rain in its way, sucking and biting, as his hands caress his back, going ever so slowly down and down, settling over the soft curve of his bottom, and grasping it firmly, getting a moan out of him, and a smile against his neck out of Geralt.

The man moves, making Jaskier retreat with him, until his back hits a wall that time hasn’t taken yet, and Geralt once again pushes against him, no space in between them, taking him in a kiss that has nothing of the carefulness of their first one, but is just as tender.

He could die right now, and he’d die a happy man.

“No dying,” Geralt growls against his throat, making him realize he had said that out loud, “I can finally have this, have _you_. I’ll take you back to the keep, and I’ll take you as many times as you’ll let me, and you’ll forget anyone else but me,” the witcher continues, and Jaskier starts to think that maybe he is dreaming.

But if he is, he doesn’t care to wake up.

* * *

Later, much later, as they are lying naked on the furs covering Geralt’s bed, when he has, indeed, allowed Geralt to take him as many times as he could handle, when his body is full of marks, and he’s counted every single scar on Geralt’s body with his tongue, when he starts to realize that they _have this_ , Jaskier stares into the eyes of his witcher, who keeps looking at him as if afraid he’ll disappear, and he can’t help himself, because there is something nagging at his mind, and he is nothing if not curious.

“Was it me dying?” he asks quietly, hands running through Geralt’s hair, and the man grunts at him, clearly asking for more information, “What made you want this, allow yourself to want this? It’s impossible that you didn’t know I loved you. That you didn’t know, at the very least, that I wanted you. Was it me almost dying?”

Geralt takes a moment to answer, his calloused hand running down Jaskier’s naked back, causing him to shiver and shuffle closer to the other man’s body, getting a small, almost secret pleased smile at his reaction.

“No,” he finally answers, hand running up now, cupping his jaw, setting a kiss on his lips, languid, slow and filled with an emotion he had at one point in time thought the witcher incapable of, “It wasn’t you almost dying.”

“What was it then?” he whispers, almost unable to get the words out as Geralt grabs him in his own hand, moving his fist slowly, torturing Jaskier in the most delicious way, and he would forget his question if he didn’t sense a divergence tactic in it, so, with much difficulty, he moves closer, his leg going over the other man’s hips, and pushing him back, setting on his hips, Geralt growing ever harder behind him, and he grinds back once, slowly, just as tortuously as Geralt had done before, “Come on, Geralt.”

Geralt surges forwards, sitting up, and pulling Jaskier against him, one hand grabbing his ass, caressing it slowly before guiding himself into Jaskier again, and the bard loses himself in the sensation, head thrown back in a loud moan as he starts to move with Geralt’s trust, questions forgotten as the witcher picks up their rhythm, rough hands grasping his hips, moving him in the precise pace of Geralt’s thrusts, slowly and deliciously in control even now.

He comes with his teeth clamped on the other man’s shoulder, a cry muffled by the witcher’s skin, and again he’s moved, on his back on the bed, as Geralt keeps moving in him, pace picking up the closer he gets to his own peak, and Geralt doesn’t hold back his moan, doesn’t quiet down his own pleasure, almost as if he wants the rest of the keep to hear them.

The witcher collapses almost on top of him, arm and leg covering his slighter form as they catch their breaths, and once he is almost asleep, eyes closed and breathing even, starting to feel the cooling of their sweat on his skin but not bothered enough by it to get up and do something about it, he feels Geralt’s hand pushing his hair back away from his face.

Jaskier opens his eyes lazily, smiling at his witcher, and pressing a kiss to the man’s hand before pressing closer, seeking the body heat he is already starting to miss.

Carefully, Geralt pulls him close, envelops him in his arms, brings a cover over them, and breaths deeply once, twice, before burying his face in Jaskier’s neck.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he says, hands tightening in something Jaskier thinks is almost an involuntary gesture, “And now I know I won’t.”

It’s a long time before Jaskier falls asleep, because he knows this isn’t right — love shouldn’t be hindered because it will end eventually, because one or both of them was sure to die.

It is a part of loving as human, a part of life for everyone, to have and to lose — but then again, they _aren’t_ human anymore, are they?

And as much as a part of him thinks they should talk about this, that they should discuss how much pain Geralt had caused them by his fear of letting himself love something he could lose, the truth is that Jaskier is not a good man all the time.

Maybe it is wrong. Maybe they shouldn’t only be able to be together because he won’t die anytime soon, and neither will Geralt, but having him here, strong arms around him, and their whole long, long lives ahead, he can’t bring himself to care.

Let humans love like humans should. He will love like a witcher, and see where that takes him.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

There is a land to the South of the continent, which is called Toussaint, and it is not like the rest of the land north of it.

They hold on tightly to values that most think fabricated, and they care most about honor than anything else — it is a land where anyone willing to take down a beast or fight against bandits is heralded as a hero, and not a monster; where a man with white hair and two swords at his back is called _Sir Witcher_ instead of _Mutant_.

It is a land where, once a service is rendered, there is always a reward — sometimes gold, sometimes armor. Sometimes it’s fine wine, and sometimes… sometimes it is a home.

A reward in this place can take the form of a humble, but comfortable house, vineyards to looks upon at sunset, a warm bed, and love — love all around him. From the bard, and from his daughter, and from the sorceresses he calls friends.

A place where Ciri can rest her head from her hunts, even after Geralt has long ago stopped traveling the continent, and she goes on their Path on her own. Where Triss grows herbs for him and his bard, and where Yennefer feels safe enough to rest, and read, drink wine and just _be_ , no masks needed. Where Lambert brings his closest friends, where Eskel keeps his most prized books.

A home, where Jaskier makes sure that the weather is _just_ right, where people who treat others with kindness are always rewarded with good crops, and those who are cruel or evil find themselves out of profit, and out of place in a land as enchanted as this.

And if as time goes by people start noticing that neither bard nor witcher age, that they are, at some point, more facts than people, well, then they won’t complain.

They bring them blessings, and love, and fairness, — it is only fair that they are repaid in kind, as protectors should.

All is well in Toussaint. And it will be, for as long as they live — and that is very long indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the thing - while I was playing The Wild Hunt, I did all the Novigrad quests before moving on to Toussaint. Novigrad is a WRETCHED place. I was about to let people die at some points, because of the way they behaved towards Geralt. And then came Toussaint, with hi being called sir, and people respecting him, and THANKING him, and, well - in the game, my Geralt picked Yennefer, and they lived in there happily ever after. I just wanted to have that peace with Jaskier as well.

**Author's Note:**

> You know what makes writers happy? Kudos and comments, good people. Kudos and Comments.


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